.1 

)H 

A1S 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


The 
Hill  of  Dreams 


By 
Arthur  Machen 


FRONTISPIECE    BY    S.    H.    SIME 


Boston 
Dana  Estes  &  Company 


1907 


College 
Library 


THERE  was  a  glow  in  the  sky  as  if  great  furnace 
doors  were  opened. 

But  all  the  afternoon  his  eyes  had  looked  on 
glamour ;  he  had  strayed  in  fairyland.  The 
holidays  were  nearly  done,  and  Lucian  Taylor 
had  gone  out  resolved  to  lose  himself,  to  discover 
strange  hills  and  prospects  that  he  had  never  seen 
before.  The  air  was  still,  breathless,  exhausted 
after  heavy  rain,  and  the  clouds  looked  as  if  they 
had  been  moulded  of  lead.  No  breeze  blew  upon 
the  hill,  and  down  in  the  well  of  the  valley  not  a 
dry  leaf  stirred,  not  a  bough  shook  in  all  the  dark 
January  woods. 

About  a  mile  from  the  rectory  he  had  diverged 
from  the  main  road  by  an  opening  that  promised 
mystery  and  adventure.  It  was  an  old  neglected 
lane,  little  more  than  a  ditch,  worn  ten  feet  deep 
by  its  winter  waters,  and  shadowed  by  great 
untrimmed  hedges,  densely  woven  together.  On 
each  side  were  turbid  streams,  and  here  and  there 
B 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

a  torrent  of  water  gushed  down  the  banks,  flood- 
ing the  lane.  It  was  so  deep  and  dark  that  he 
could  not  get  a  glimpse  of  the  country  through 
which  he  was  passing,  but  the  way  went  down 
and  down  to  some  unconjectured  hollow. 

Perhaps  he  walked  two  miles  between  the  high 
walls  of  the  lane  before  its  descent  ceased,  but 
he  thrilled  with  the  sense  of  having  journeyed 
very  far,  all  the  long  way  from  the  known  to  the 
unknown.  He  had  come  as  it  were  into  the 
bottom  of  a  bowl  amongst  the  hills,  and  black 
woods  shut  out  the  world.  From  the  road  behind 
him,  from  the  road  before  him,  from  the  unseen 
wells  beneath  the  trees,  rivulets  of  waters  swelled 
and  streamed  down  towards  the  centre  to  the 
brook  that  crossed  the  lane.  Amid  the  dead  and 
wearied  silence  of  the  air,  beneath  leaden  and 
motionless  clouds,  it  was  strange  to  hear  such  a 
tumult  of  gurgling  and  rushing  water,  and  he 
stood  for  a  while  on  the  quivering  footbridge  and 
watched  the  rush  of  dead  wood  and  torn  branches 
and  wisps  of  straw  all  hurrying  madly  past  him, 
to  plunge  into  the  heaped  spume,  the  barmy  froth 
that  had  gathered  against  a  fallen  tree. 

Then  he  climbed  again,  and  went  up  between 
limestone  rocks,  higher  and  higher,  till  the  noise 

2 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

of  waters  became  indistinct,  a  faint  humming  like 
swarming  hives  in  summer.  He  walked  some 
distance  on  level  ground,  till  there  was  a  break  in 
the  banks  and  a  stile  on  which  he  could  lean  and 
look  out.  He  found  himself,  as  he  had  hoped, 
afar  and  forlorn ;  he  had  strayed  into  outland 
and  occult  territory.  From  the  eminence  of  the 
lane,  skirting  the  brow  of  a  hill,  he  looked  down 
into  deep  valleys  and  dingles,  and  beyond,  across 
the  trees,  to  remoter  country,  wild  bare  hills  and 
dark  wooded  lands  meeting  the  grey  still  sky. 
Immediately  beneath  his  feet  the  ground  sloped 
steep  down  to  the  valley,  a  hillside  of  close  grass 
patched  with  dead  bracken,  and  dotted  here  and 
there  with  stunted  thorns,  and  below  there  were 
deep  oakwoods,  all  still  and  silent,  and  lonely  as 
if  no  one  ever  passed  that  way.  The  grass  and 
bracken  and  thorns  and  woods,  all  were  brown 
and  grey  beneath  the  leaden  sky ;  and  as  Lucian 
looked  he  was  amazed,  as  though  he  were  reading 
a  wonderful  story,  the  meaning  of  which  was  a 
little  greater  than  his  understanding.  Then,  like 
the  hero  of  a  fairy-book,  he  went  on  and  on,  catch- 
ing now  and  again  glimpses  of  the  amazing 
country  into  which  he  had  penetrated,  and  per- 
ceiving rather  than  seeing  that  as  the  day  waned 

3 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

everything  grew  more  grey  and  sombre.  As  he 
advanced  he  heard  the  evening  sounds  of  the 
farms,  the  low  of  the  cattle,  and  the  barking  of 
the  sheepdogs ;  a  faint  thin  noise  from  far  away. 
It  was  growing  late,  and  as  the  shadows  blackened 
he  walked  faster,  till  once  more  the  lane  began  to 
descend,  there  was  a  sharp  turn,  and  he  found 
himself,  with  a  good  deal  of  relief,  and  a  little  dis- 
appointment, on  familiar  ground.  He  had  nearly 
described  a  circle,  and  knew  this  end  of  the  lane 
very  well ;  it  was  not  much  more  than  a  mile 
from  home.  He  walked  smartly  down  the  hill ; 
the  air  was  all  glimmering  and  indistinct,  trans- 
muting trees  and  hedges  into  ghostly  shapes,  and 
the  walls  of  the  White  House  farm  flickered  on 
the  hillside,  as  if  they  were  moving  towards  him. 
Then  a  change  came.  First,  a  little  breath  of 
wind  brushed  with  a  dry  whispering  sound 
through  the  hedges,  the  few  leaves  left  on  the 
boughs  began  to  stir,  and  one  or  two  danced 
madly,  and  as  the  wind  freshened  and  came  up 
from  a  new  quarter,  the  sapless  branches  above 
rattled  against  one  another  like  bones.  The  grow- 
ing breeze  seemed  to  clear  the  air  and  lighten 
it.  He  was  passing  the  stile  where  a  path  led 
to  old  Mrs.  Gibbon's  desolate  little  cottage,  in 

4 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

the  middle  of  the  fields,  at  some  distance  even 
from  the  lane,  and  he  saw  the  light  blue  smoke  of 
her  chimney  rise  distinct  above  the  gaunt  green- 
gage trees,  against  a  pale  band  that  was  broaden- 
ing along  the  horizon.  As  he  passed  the  stile 
with  his  head  bent,  and  his  eyes  on  the  ground, 
something  white  started  out  from  the  black 
shadow  of  the  hedge,  and  in  the  strange  twilight, 
now  tinged  with  a  flush  from  the  west,  a  figure 
seemed  to  swim  past  him  and  disappear.  For  a 
moment  he  wondered  who  it  could  be,  the  light 
was  so  flickering  and  unsteady,  so  unlike  the  real 
atmosphere  of  day,  when  he  recollected  it  was 
only  Annie  Morgan,  old  Morgan's  daughter  at 
the  White  House.  She  was  three  years  older 
than  he,  and  it  annoyed  him  to  find  that  though 
she  was  only  fifteen,  there  had  been  a  dreadful 
increase  in  her  height  since  the  summer  holidays. 
He  had  got  to  the  bottom  of  the  hill,  and  lifting 
up  his  eyes,  saw  the  strange  changes  of  the  sky. 
The  pale  band  had  broadened  into  a  clear  vast 
space  of  light,  and  above,  the  heavy  leaden  clouds 
were  breaking  apart  and  driving  across  the  heaven 
before  the  wind.  He  stopped  to  watch,  and 
looked  up  at  the  great  mound  that  jutted  out  from 
the  hills  into  mid-valley.  It  was  a  natural  forma- 

5 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

tion,  and  always  it  must  have  had  something  of 
the  form  of  a  fort,  but  its  steepness  had  been  in- 
creased by  Roman  art,  and  there  were  high  banks 
on  the  summit  which  Lucian's  father  had  told  him 
were  the  vallum  of  the  camp,  and  a  deep  ditch 
had  been  dug  to  the  north  to  sever  it  from  the 
hillside.  On  this  summit  oaks  had  grown,  queer 
stunted-looking  trees  with  twisted  and  contorted 
trunks,  and  writhing  branches;  and  these  now 
stood  out  black  against  the  lighted  sky.  And 
then  the  air  changed  once  more ;  the  flush  in- 
creased, and  a  spot  like  blood  appeared  in  the 
pond  by  the  gate,  and  all  the  clouds  were  touched 
with  fiery  spots  and  dapples  of  flame ;  here  and 
there  it  looked  as  if  awful  furnace  doors  were 
being  opened. 

The  wind  blew  wildly,  and  it  came  up  through 
the  woods  with  a  noise  like  a  scream,  and  a  great 
oak  by  the  roadside  ground  its  boughs  together 
with  a  dismal  grating  jar.  As  the  red  gained  in 
the  sky,  the  earth  and  all  upon  it  glowed,  even 
the  grey  winter  fields  and  the  bare  hillsides  crim- 
soned, the  waterpools  were  cisterns  of  molten 
brass,  and  the  very  road  glittered.  He  was 
wonder-struck,  almost  aghast,  before  the  scarlet 
magic  of  the  afterglow.  The  old  Roman  fort 

6 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

was  invested  with  fire ;  flames  from  heaven  were 
smitten  about  its  walls,  and  above  there  was  a 
dark  floating  cloud,  like  a  fume  of  smoke,  and 
every  haggard  writhing  tree  showed  as  black  as 
midnight  against  the  blast  of  the  furnace. 

When  he  got  home  he  heard  his  mother's  voice 
calling :  '  Here's  Lucian  at  last.  Mary,  Master 
Lucian  has  come,  you  can  get  the  tea  ready.'  He 
told  a  long  tale  of  his  adventures,  and  felt  some- 
what mortified  when  his  father  seemed  perfectly 
acquainted  with  the  whole  course  of  the  lane,  and 
knew  the  names  of  the  wild  woods  through  which 
he  had  passed  in  awe. 

'You  must  have  gone  by  the  Darren,  I  sup- 
pose ' — that  was  all  he  said.  '  Yes,  I  noticed 
the  sunset ;  we  shall  have  some  stormy  weather. 
I  don't  expect  to  see  many  in  church  to- 
morrow.' 

There  was  buttered  toast  for  tea  '  because  it 
was  holidays.'  The  red  curtains  were  drawn,  and 
a  bright  fire  was  burning,  and  there  was  the  old 
familiar  furniture,  a  little  shabby,  but  charming 
from  association.  It  was  much  pleasanter  than  the 
cold  and  squalid  schoolroom ;  and  much  better 
to  be  reading  Chambers 's  Journal  than  learning 
Euclid ;  and  better  to  talk  to  his  father  and 

7 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

mother  than  to  be  answering  such  remarks  as :  '  I 
say,  Taylor,  I've  torn  my  trousers  ;  how  much  do 
you  charge  for  mending?"  'Lucy,  dear,  come 
quick  and  sew  this  button  on  my  shirt.' 

That  night  the  storm  woke  him,  and  he  groped 
with  his  hands  amongst  the  bedclothes,  and  sat 
up,  shuddering,  not  knowing  where  he  was.  He 
had  seen  himself,  in  a  dream,  within  the  Roman 
fort,  working  some  dark  horror,  and  the  furnace 
doors  were  opened  and  a  blast  of  flame  from 
heaven  was  smitten  upon  him. 

Lucian  went  slowly,  but  not  discreditably,  up 
the  school,  gaining  prizes  now  and  again,  and 
falling  in  love  more  and  more  with  useless  reading 
and  unlikely  knowledge.  He  did  his  elegiacs  and 
iambics  well  enough,  but  he  preferred  exercising 
himself  in  the  rhymed  Latin  of  the  middle  ages. 
He  liked  history,  but  he  loved  to  meditate  on  a 
land  laid  waste,  Britain  deserted  by  the  legions, 
the  rare  pavements  riven  by  frost,  Celtic  magic 
still  brooding  on  the  wild  hills  and  in  the  black 
depths  of  the  forest,  the  rosy  marbles  stained  with 
rain,  and  the  walls  growing  grey.  The  masters 
did  not  encourage  these  researches ;  a  pure 
enthusiasm,  they  felt,  should  be  for  cricket  and 

8 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

football,  the  dilettanti  might  even  play  fives  and 
read  Shakespeare  without  blame,  but  healthy 
English  boys  should  have  nothing  to  do  with 
decadent  periods.  He  was  once  found  guilty  of 
recommending  Villon  to  a  school-fellow  named 
Barnes.  Barnes  tried  to  extract  unpleasantness 
from  the  text  during  preparation,  and  rioted  in 
his  place,  owing  to  his  incapacity  for  the  language. 
The  matter  was  a  serious  one ;  the  headmaster 
had  never  heard  of  Villon,  and  the  culprit  gave 
up  the  name  of  his  literary  admirer  without 
remorse.  Hence,  sorrow  for  Lucian,  and  complete 
immunity  for  the  miserable  illiterate  Barnes,  who 
resolved  to  confine  his  researches  to  the  Old 
Testament,  a  book  which  the  headmaster  knew 
well.  As  for  Lucian,  he  plodded  on,  learning  his 
work  decently,  and  sometimes  doing  very  credit- 
able Latin  and  Greek  prose.  His  school -fellows 
thought  him  quite  mad,  and  tolerated  him,  and 
indeed  were  very  kind  to  him  in  their  barbarous 
manner.  He  often  remembered  in  after  life  acts 
of  generosity  and  good  nature  done  by  wretches 
like  Barnes,  who  had  no  care  for  old  French  nor 
for  curious  metres,  and  such  recollections  always 
moved  him  to  emotion.  Travellers  tell  such 
tales ;  cast  upon  cruel  shores  amongst  savage 

9 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

races,   they   have   found   no  little  kindness  and 
warmth  of  hospitality. 

He  looked  forward  to  the  holidays  as  joyfully 
as  the  rest  of  them.  Barnes  and  his  friend 
Duscot  used  to  tell  him  their  plans  and  anticipa- 
tions ;  they  were  going  home  to  brothers  and 
sisters,  and  to  cricket,  more  cricket,  or  to  football, 
more  football,  and  in  the  winter  there  were  parties 
and  jollities  of  all  sorts.  In  return  he  would 
announce  his  intention  of  studying  the  Hebrew 
language,  or  perhaps  Provencal,  with  a  walk  up  a 
bare  and  desolate  mountain  by  way  of  open-air 
amusement,  and  on  a  rainy  day  for  choice. 
Whereupon  Barnes  would  impart  to  Duscot  his 
confident  belief  that  old  Taylor  was  quite 
cracked.  It  was  a  queer,  funny  life  that  of  school, 
so  very  unlike  anything  in  Tom  Brown.  He  once 
saw  the  headmaster  patting  the  head  of  the 
bishop's  little  boy,  while  he  called  him  '  my  little 
man/  and  smiled  hideously.  He  told  the  tale 
grotesquely  in  the  lower  fifth  room  the  same  day, 
and  earned  much  applause,  but  forfeited  all  liking 
directly  by  proposing  a  voluntary  course  of  scho- 
lastic logic.  One  barbarian  threw  him  to  the 
ground  and  another  jumped  on  him,  but  it  was 
done  very  pleasantly.  There  were,  indeed,  some 
10 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

few  of  a  worse  class  in  the  school,  solemn  syco- 
phants, prigs  perfected  from  tender  years,  who 
thought  life  already  '  serious,'  and  yet,  as  the 
headmaster  said,  were  'joyous,  manly  young 
fellows.'  Some  of  these  dressed  for  dinner  at 
home,  and  talked  of  dances  when  they  came  back 
in  January.  But  this  virulent  sort  was  compara- 
tively infrequent,  and  achieved  great  success  in 
after  life.  Taking  his  school  days  on  the  whole,  he 
always  spoke  up  for  the  system,  and  years  after- 
wards he  described  with  enthusiasm  the  strong 
beer  at  a  roadside  tavern,  some  way  out  of  the 
town.  But  he  always  maintained  that  the  taste 
for  tobacco,  acquired  in  early  life,  was  the  great 
note  of  the  English  Public  School. 

Three  years  after  Lucian's  discovv,«ry  of  the 
narrow  lane  and  the  vision  of  the  flaming  fort, 
the  August  holidays  brought  him  home  at  a  time 
of  great  heat.  It  was  one  of  those  memorable 
years  of  English  weather,  when  some  Provengal 
spell  seems  wreathed  round  the  island  in  the 
northern  sea,  and  the  grasshoppers  chirp  loudly 
as  the  cicadas,  the  hills  smell  of  rosemary,  and 
white  walls  of  old  farmhouses  blaze  in  the  sunlight 
as  if  they  stood  in  Aries  or  Avignon  or  famed 
Tarascon  by  Rhone. 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

Lucian's  father  was  late  at  the  station,  and  con- 
sequently Lucian  bought  the  Confessions  of  an 
English  Opium  Eater  which  he  saw  on  the  book- 
stall. When  his  father  did  drive  up,  Lucian 
noticed  that  the  old  trap  had  had  a  new  coat  of 
dark  paint,  and  that  the  pony  looked  advanced 
in  years. 

'  I  was  afraid  that  I  should  be  late,  Lucian/ 
said  his  father,  '  though  I  made  old  Polly  go  like 
anything.  I  was  just  going  to  tell  George  to  put 
her  into  the  trap  when  young  Philip  Harris  came 
to  me  in  a  terrible  state.  He  said  his  father  fell 
down  '  all  of  a  sudden  like '  in  the  middle  of  the 
field,  and  they  couldn't  make  him  speak,  and 
would  I  please  to  come  and  see  him.  So  I  had  to 
go,  though  I  couldn't  do  anything  for  the  poor 
fellow.  They  had  sent  for  Dr.  Burrows,  and  I  am 
afraid  he  will  find  it  a  bad  case  of  sunstroke.  The 
old  people  say  they  never  remember  such  a  heat 
before.' 

The  pony  jogged  steadily  along  the  burning 
turnpike  road,  taking  revenge  for  the  hurrying  on 
the  way  to  the  station.  The  hedges  were  white 
with  the  limestone  dust,  and  the  vapour  of  heat 
palpitated  over  the  fields.  Lucian  showed  his 
Confessions  to  his  father,  and  began  to  talk  of  the 

12 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

beautiful  bits  he  had  already  found.  Mr.  Taylor 
knew  the  book  well — had  read  it  many  years 
before.  Indeed  he  was  almost  as  difficult  to  sur- 
prise as  that  character  in  Daudet,  who  had  one 
formula  for  all  the  chances  of  life,  and  when  he 
saw  the  drowned  Academician  dragged  out  of  the 
river,  merely  observed  'J'ai  vu  tout  fa.'  Mr.  Taylor 
the  parson,  as  his  parishioners  called  him,  had 
read  the  fine  books  and  loved  the  hills  and 
woods,  and  now  knew  no  more  of  pleasant  or 
sensational  surprises.  Indeed  the  living  was 
much  depreciated  in  value,  and  his  own  private 
means  were  reduced  almost  to  vanishing  point, 
and  under  such  circumstances  the  great  style 
loses  many  of  its  finer  savours.  He  was  very 
fond  of  Lucian,  and  cheered  by  his  return,  but  in 
the  evening  he  would  be  a  sad  man  again,  with 
his  head  resting  on  one  hand,  and  eyes  reproach- 
ing sorry  fortune. 

Nobody  called  out  '  Here's  your  master  with 
Master  Lucian  :  you  can  get  tea  ready,'  when  the 
pony  jogged  up  to  the  front  door.  His  mother 
had  been  dead  a  year,  and  a  cousin  kept  house. 
She  was  a  respectable  person  called  Deacon,  of 
middle  age,  and  ordinary  standards ;  and,  con- 
sequently, there  was  cold  mutton  on  the  table. 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

There  was  a  cake,  but  nothing  of  flour,  baked  in 
ovens,  would  rise  at  Miss  Deacon's  evocation. 
Still,  the  meal  was  laid  in  the  beloved  '  parlour,' 
with  the  view  of  hills  and  valleys  and  climbing 
woods  from  the  open  window,  and  the  old  furni- 
ture was  still  pleasant  to  see,  and  the  old  books 
in  the  shelves  had  many  memories.  One  of  the 
most  respected  of  the  armchairs  had  become  weak 
in  the  castors  and  had  to  be  artfully  propped  up, 
but  Lucian  found  it  very  comfortable  after  the 
hard  forms.  When  tea  was  over  he  went  out  and 
strolled  in  the  garden  and  orchards,  and  looked 
over  the  stile  down  into  the  brake,  where  fox- 
gloves and  bracken  and  broom  mingled  with  the 
hazel  undergrowth,  where  he  knew  of  secret  glades 
and  untracked  recesses,  deep  in  the  woven  green, 
the  cabinets  for  many  years  of  his  lonely  medita- 
tions. Every  path  about  his  home,  every  field 
and  hedgerow  had  dear  and  friendly  memories 
for  him  ;  and  the  odour  of  the  meadowsweet  was 
better  than  the  incense  steaming  in  the  sunshine. 
He  loitered,  and  hung  over  the  stile  till  the  far-off 
woods  began  to  turn  purple,  till  the  white  mists 
were  wreathing  in  the  valley. 

Day  after  day,  through  all  that  August,  morn- 
ing and  evening  were  wrapped  in  haze  ;  day  after 
14 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

day  the  earth  shimmered  in  the  heat,  and  the  air 
was  strange,  unfamiliar.  As  he  wandered  in  the 
lanes  and  sauntered  by  the  cool  sweet  verge  of 
the  woods,  he  saw  and  felt  that  nothing  was 
common  or  accustomed,  for  the  sunlight  trans- 
figured the  meadows  and  changed  all  the  form  of 
the  earth.  Under  the  violent  Provengal  sun,  the 
elms  and  beeches  looked  exotic  trees,  and  in  the 
early  morning  when  the  mists  were  thick  the  hills 
had  put  on  an  unearthly  shape. 

The  one  adventure  of  the  holidays  was  the 
visit  to  the  Roman  fort,  to  that  fantastic  hill 
about  whose  steep  bastions  and  haggard  oaks  he 
had  seen  the  flames  of  sunset  writhing  nearly 
three  years  before.  Ever  since  that  Saturday 
evening  in  January,  the  lonely  valley  had  been  a 
desirable  place  to  him  ;  he  had  watched  the  green 
battlements  in  summer  and  winter  weather,  had 
seen  the  heaped  mounds  rising  dimly  amidst  the 
drifting  rain,  had  marked  the  violent  height  swim 
up  from  the  ice-white  mists  of  summer  evenings» 
had  watched  the  fairy  bulwarks  glimmer  and 
vanish  in  hovering  April  twilight.  In  the  hedge 
of  the  lane  there  was  a  gate  on  which  he  used  to 
lean  and  look  down  south  to  where  the  hill  surged 
up  so  suddenly,  its  summit  defined  on  summer 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

evenings  not  only  by  the  rounded  ramparts  but 
by  the  ring  of  dense  green  foliage  that  marked 
the  circle  of  oak  trees.  Higher  up  the  lane,  on 
the  way  he  had  come  that  Saturday  afternoon, 
one  could  see  the  white  walls  of  Morgan's  farm 
on  the  hillside  to  the  north,  and  on  the  south 
there  was  the  stile  with  the  view  of  old  Mrs 
Gibbon's  cottage  smoke  ;  but  down  in  the  hollow, 
looking  over  the  gate,  there  was  no  hint  of  human 
work,  except  those  green  and  antique  battlements, 
on  which  the  oaks  stood  in  circle,  guarding  the 
inner  wood. 

The  ring  of  the  fort  drew  him  with  stronger 
fascination  during  that  hot  August  weather. 
Standing,  or  as  his  headmaster  would  have  said, 
'  mooning '  by  the  gate,  and  looking  into  that 
enclosed  and  secret  valley,  it  seemed  to  his  fancy 
as  if  there  were  a  halo  about  the  hill,  an  aureole 
that  played  like  flame  around  it.  One  afternoon 
as  he  gazed  from  his  station  by  the  gate  the  sheer 
sides  and  the  swelling  bulwarks  were  more  than 
ever  things  of  enchantment ;  the  green  oak  ring 
stood  out  against  the  sky  as  still  and  bright  as  in 
a  picture,  and  Lucian,  in  spite  of  his  respect  for 
the  law  of  trespass,  slid  over  the  gate.  The 
farmers  and  their  men  were  busy  on  the  uplands 
16 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

with  the  harvest,  and  the  adventure  was  irre- 
sistible. At  first  he  stole  along  by  the  brook  in 
the  shadow  of  the  alders,  where  the  grass  and  the 
flowers  of  wet  meadows  grew  richly ;  but  as  he 
drew  nearer  to  the  fort,  and  its  height  now  rose 
sheer  above  him,  he  left  all  shelter,  and  began 
desperately  to  mount.  There  was  not  a  breath 
of  wind;  the  sunlight  shone  down  on  the  bare 
hillside ;  the  loud  chirp  of  the  grasshoppers  was 
the  only  sound.  It  was  a  steep  ascent  and  grew 
steeper  as  the  valley  sank  away.  He  turned  for 
a  moment,  and  looked  down  towards  the  stream 
which  now  seemed  to  wind  remote  between  the 
alders ;  above  the  valley  there  were  small  dark 
figures  moving  in  the  cornfield,  and  now  and 
again  there  came  the  faint  echo  of  a  high-pitched 
voice  singing  through  the  air  as  on  a  wire.  He 
was  wet  with  heat ;  the  sweat  streamed  off  his 
face,  and  he  could  feel  it  trickling  all  over  his 
body.  But  above  him  the  green  bastions  rose 
defiant,  and  the  dark  ring  of  oaks  promised  cool- 
ness. He  pressed  on,  and  higher,  and  at  last 
began  to  crawl  up  the  vallum,  on  hands  and  knees, 
grasping  the  turf  and  here  and  there  the  roots 
that  had  burst  through  the  red  earth.  And  then 
he  lay,  panting  with  deep  breaths,  on  the  summit, 
c  17 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

Within  the  fort  it  was  all  dusky  and  cool  and 
hollow  ;  it  was  as  if  one  stood  at  the  bottom  of  a 
great  cup.  Within,  the  wall  seemed  higher  than 
without,  and  the  ring  of  oaks  curved  up  like  a 
dark  green  vault.  There  were  nettles  growing 
thick  and  rank  in  the  foss ;  they  looked  different 
from  the  common  nettles  in  the  lanes,  and  Lucian, 
letting  his  hand  touch  a  leaf  by  accident,  felt  the 
sting  burn  like  fire.  Beyond  the  ditch  there  was 
an  undergrowth,  a  dense  thicket  of  trees,  stunted 
and  old,  crooked  and  withered  by  the  winds  into 
awkward  and  ugly  forms;  beech  and  oak  and 
hazel  and  ash  and  yew  twisted  and  so  shortened 
and  deformed  that  each  seemed,  like  the  nettle,  of 
no  common  kind.  He  began  to  fight  his  way 
through  the  ugly  growth,  stumbling  and  getting 
hard  knocks  from  the  rebound  of  the  twisted 
boughs.  His  foot  struck  once  or  twice  against 
something  harder  than  wood,  and  looking  down 
he  saw  stones  white  with  the  leprosy  of  age,  but 
still  showing  the  work  of  the  axe.  And  farther, 
the  roots  of  the  stunted  trees  gripped  the  foot- 
high  relics  of  a  wall ;  and  a  round  heap  of  fallen 
stones  nourished  rank,  unknown  herbs,  that  smelt 
poisonous.  The  earth  was  black  and  unctuous, 
and  bubbling  under  the  feet,  left  no  track  behind. 
18 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

From  it,  in  the  darkest  places  where  the  shadow 
was  thickest,  swelled  the  growth  of  an  abomin- 
able fungus,  making  the  still  air  sick  with  its 
corrupt  odour,  and  he  shuddered  as  he  felt  the 
horrible  thing  pulped  beneath  his  feet.  Then 
there  was  a  gleam  of  sunlight,  and  as  he  thrust 
the  last  boughs  apart,  he  stumbled  into  the  open 
space  in  the  heart  of  the  camp.  It  was  a  lawn  of 
sweet  close  turf  in  the  centre  of  the  matted  brake, 
of  clean  firm  earth  from  which  no  shameful 
growth  sprouted,  and  near  the  middle  of  the 
glade  was  a  stump  of  a  felled  yew-tree,  left  un- 
trimmed  by  the  woodman.  Lucian  thought  it 
must  have  been  made  for  a  seat ;  a  crooked 
bough  through  which  a  little  sap  still  ran  was  a 
support  for  the  back,  and  he  sat  down  and  rested 
after  his  toil.  It  was  not  really  so  comfortable  a 
seat  as  one  of  the  school  forms,  but  the  satisfac- 
tion was  to  find  anything  at  all  that  would  serve 
for  a  chair.  He  sat  there,  still  panting  after  the 
climb  and  his  struggle  through  the  dank  and 
jungle-like  thicket,  and  he  felt  as  if  he  were 
growing  hotter  and  hotter;  the  sting  of  the 
nettle  was  burning  his  hand,  and  the  tingling  fire 
seemed  to  spread  all  over  his  body. 

Suddenly,  he  knew  that  he  was   alone.     Not 
19 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

merely  solitary  ;  that  he  had  often  been  amongst 
the  woods  and  deep  in  the  lanes  ;  but  now  it  was 
a  wholly  different  and  a  very  strange  sensation. 
He  thought  of  the  valley  winding  far  below  him, 
all  its  fields  by  the  brook  green  and  peaceful  and 
still,  without  path  or  track.  Then  he  had  climbed 
the  abrupt  surge  of  the  hill,  and  passing  the  green 
and  swelling  battlements,  the  ring  of  oaks,  and 
the  matted  thicket,  had  come  to  the  central  space. 
And  behind  there  were,  he  knew,  many  desolate 
fields,  wild  as  common,  untrodden,  unvisited.  He 
was  utterly  alone.  He  still  grew  hotter  as  he  sat 
on  the  stump,  and  at  last  lay  down  at  full  length 
on  the  soft  grass,  and  more  at  his  ease  felt  the 
waves  of  heat  pass  over  his  body. 

And  then  he  began  to  dream,  to  let  his  fancies 
stray  over  half-imagined,  delicious  things,  indulg- 
ing a  virgin  mind  in  its  wanderings.  The  hot  air 
seemed  to  beat  upon  him  in  palpable  waves,  and 
the  nettle  sting  tingled  and  itched  intolerably; 
and  he  was  alone  upon  the  fairy  hill,  within  the 
great  mounds,  within  the  ring  of  oaks,  deep  in 
the  heart  of  the  matted  thicket.  Slowly  and 
timidly  he  began  to  untie  his  boots,  fumbling 
with  the  laces,  and  glancing  all  the  while  on 
every  side  at  the  ugly  misshapen  trees  that  hedged 
20 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

the  lawn.  Not  a  branch  was  straight,  not  one 
was  free,  but  all  were  interlaced  and  grew  one 
about  another ;  and  just  above  ground,  where  the 
cankered  stems  joined  the  protuberant  roots, 
there  were  forms  that  imitated  the  human  shape, 
and  faces  and  twining  limbs  that  amazed  him. 
Green  mosses  were  hair,  and  tresses  were  stark  in 
grey  lichen;  a  twisted  root  swelled  into  a  limb;  in 
the  hollows  of  the  rotted  bark  he  saw  the  masks 
of  men.  His  eyes  were  fixed  and  fascinated  by 
the  simulacra  of  the  wood,  and  could  not  see  his 
hands,  and  so  at  last,  and  suddenly,  it  seemed,  he 
lay  in  the  sunlight,  beautiful  with  his  olive  skin, 
dark  haired,  dark  eyed,  the  gleaming  bodily 
vision  of  a  strayed  faun. 

Quick  flames  now  quivered  in  the  substance  of 
his  nerves,  hints  of  mysteries,  secrets  of  life  passed 
trembling  through  his  brain,  unknown  desires 
stung  him.  As  he  gazed  across  the  turf  and  into 
the  thicket,  the  sunshine  seemed  really  to  become 
green,  and  the  contrast  between  the  bright  glow 
poured  on  the  lawn  and  the  black  shadow  of  the 
brake  made  an  odd  flickering  light,  in  which  all 
the  grotesque  postures  of  stem  and  root  began  to 
stir ;  the  wood  was  alive.  The  turf  beneath  him 
heaved  and  sank  as  with  the  deep  swell  of  the 
ai 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

sea.  He  fell  asleep,  and  lay  still  on  the  grass,  in 
the  midst  of  the  thicket. 

He  found  out  afterwards  that  he  must  have 
slept  for  nearly  an  hour.  The  shadows  had 
changed  when  he  awoke ;  his  senses  came  to  him 
with  a  sudden  shock,  and  he  sat  up  and  stared  at 
his  bare  limbs  in  stupid  amazement.  He  huddled 
on  his  clothes  and  laced  his  boots,  wondering 
what  folly  had  beset  him.  Then,  while  he  stood 
indecisive,  hesitating,  his  brain  a  whirl  of  puzzled 
thought,  his  body  trembling,  his  hands  shaking ; 
as  with  electric  heat,  sudden  remembrance  pos- 
sessed him.  A  flaming  blush  shone  red  on  his 
cheeks,  and  glowed  and  thrilled  through  his 
limbs.  As  he  awoke,  a  brief  and  slight  breeze 
had  stirred  in  a  nook  of  the  matted  boughs,  and 
there  was  a  glinting  that  might  have  been  the 
flash  of  sudden  sunlight  across  shadow,  and  the 
branches  rustled  and  murmured  for  a  moment, 
perhaps  at  the  wind's  passage. 

He  stretched  out  his  hands,  and  cried  to  his 
visitant  to  return ;  he  entreated  the  dark  eyes 
that  had  shone  over  him,  and  the  scarlet  lips  that 
had  kissed  him.  And  then  panic  fear  rushed 
into  his  heart,  and  he  ran  blindly,  dashing  through 
the  wood.  He  climbed  the  vallum,  and  looked 

22 


THE   HILL  OF   DREAMS 

out,  crouching,  lest  anybody  should  see  him. 
Only  the  shadows  were  changed,  and  a  breath  of 
cooler  air  mounted  from  the  brook ;  the  fields 
were  still  and  peaceful,  the  black  figures  moved, 
far  away,  amidst  the  corn,  and  the  faint  echo  of 
the  high-pitched  voices  sang  thin  and  distant  on 
the  evening  wind.  Across  the  stream,  in  the 
cleft  on  the  hill,  opposite  to  the  fort,  the  blue 
wood  smoke  stole  up  a  spiral  pillar  from  the 
chimney  of  old  Mrs.  Gibbon's  cottage.  He  began 
to  run  full  tilt  down  the  steep  surge  of  the  hill, 
and  never  stopped  till  he  was  over  the  gate  and 
in  the  lane  again.  As  he  looked  back,  down  the 
valley  to  the  south,  and  saw  the  violent  ascent, 
the  green  swelling  bulwarks,  and  the  dark  ring  of 
oaks  ;  the  sunlight  seemed  to  play  about  the  fort 
with  an  aureole  of  flame. 

'Where  on  earth  have  you  been  all  this  time. 
Lucian  ? '  said  his  cousin  when  he  got  home, 
'  Why,  you  look  quite  ill.  It  is  really  madness  of 
you  to  go  walking  in  such  weather  as  this.  I 
wonder  you  haven't  got  a  sunstroke.  And  the 
tea  must  be  nearly  cold.  I  couldn't  keep  your 
father  waiting,  you  know.' 

He   muttered  something  about    being    rather 
tired,  and  sat  down  to  his  tea.     It  was  not  cold, 
23 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

for  the  'cosy'  had  been  put  over  the  pot,  but  it 
was  black  and  bitter  strong,  as  his  cousin  ex- 
pressed it.  The  draught  was  unpalatable,  but  it 
did  him  good,  and  the  thought  came  with  great 
consolation  that  he  had  only  been  asleep  and 
dreaming  queer,  nightmarish  dreams.  He  shook 
off  all  his  fancies  with  resolution,  and  thought  the 
loneliness  of  the  camp,  and  the  burning  sunlight, 
and  possibly  the  nettle  sting,  which  still  tingled 
most  abominably,  must  have  been  the  only 
factors  in  his  farrago  of  impossible  recollections. 
He  remembered  that  when  he  had  felt  the  sting, 
he  had  seized  a  nettle  with  thick  folds  of  his 
handkerchief,  and  having  twisted  off  a  good 
length,  had  put  it  in  his  pocket  to  show  his  father. 
Mr.  Taylor  was  almost  interested  when  he  came 
in  from  his  evening  stroll  about  the  garden  and 
saw  the  specimen. 

'Where  did  you  manage  to  come  across  that, 
Lucian?'  he  said.  'You  haven't  been  to  Caer- 
maen,  have  you  ? ' 

'  No.  I  got  it  in  the  Roman  fort  by  the  common.' 

'  Oh,  the  twyn.  You  must  have  been  trespass- 
ing then.  Do  you  know  what  it  is  ? ' 

'  No.  I  thought  it  looked  different  from  the 
common  nettles.' 

24 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

'  Yes ;  it's  a  Roman  nettle — urtica  pilulifera. 
It's  a  rare  plant.  Burrows  says  it's  to  be  found 
at  Caermaen,  but  I  was  never  able  to  come  across 
it.  I  must  add  it  to  \htflora  of  the  parish.' 

Mr.  Taylor  had  begun  to  compile  a  flora  ac- 
companied by  a  hortus  siccus,  but  both  stayed  on 
high  shelves  dusty  and  fragmentary.  He  put  the 
specimen  on  his  desk,  intending  to  fasten  it  in 
the  book,  but  the  maid  swept  it  away,  dry  and 
withered,  in  a  day  or  two. 

Lucian  tossed  and  cried  out  in  his  sleep  that 
night,  and  the  awakening  in  the  morning  was,  in 
a  measure,  a  renewal  of  the  awakening  in  the 
fort.  But  the  impression  was  not  so  strong,  and 
in  a  plain  room  it  seemed  all  delirium,  a  phantas- 
magoria. He  had  to  go  down  to  Caermaen  in 
the  afternoon,  for  Mrs.  Dixon,  the  vicar's  wife,  had 
'commanded'  his  presence  at  tea.  Mr.  Dixon, 
though  fat  and  short  and  clean  shaven,  ruddy  of 
face,  was  a  safe  man,  with  no  extreme  views  on 
anything.  He  '  deplored '  all  extreme  party  con- 
victions, and  thought  the  great  needs  of  our 
beloved  Church  were  conciliation,  moderation, 
and  above  all  'amolgamation' — so  he  pronounced 
the  word.  Mrs.  Dixon  was  tall,  imposing,  splen- 
did, well  fitted  for  the  episcopal  order,  with  gifts 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

that  would  have  shone  at  the  palace.  There  were 
daughters,  who  studied  German  Literature,  and 
thought  Miss  Frances  Ridley  Havergal  wrote 
poetry,  but  Lucian  had  no  fear  of  them ;  he 
dreaded  the  boys.  Everybody  said  they  were 
such  fine,  manly  fellows,  such  gentlemanly  boys, 
with  such  a  good  manner,  sure  to  get  on  in  the 
world.  Lucian  had  said  '  Bother ! '  in  a  very 
violent  manner  when  the  gracious  invitation  was 
conveyed  to  him,  but  there  was  no  getting  out  of 
it.  Miss  Deacon  did  her  best  to  make  him  look 
smart ;  his  ties  were  all  so  disgraceful  that  she 
had  to  supply  the  want  with  a  narrow  ribbon  of  a 
sky-blue  tint;  and  she  brushed  him  so  long  and 
so  violently  that  he  quite  understood  why  a  horse 
sometimes  bites  and  sometimes  kicks  the  groom. 
He  set  out  between  two  and  three  in  a  gloomy 
frame  of  mind ;  he  knew  too  well  what  spending 
the  afternoon  with  honest  manly  boys  meant- 
He  found  the  reality  more  lurid  than  his  anticipa- 
tion. The  boys  were  in  the  field,  and  the  first 
remark  he  heard  when  he  got  in  sight  of  the 
group  was  : 

'  Hullo,  Lucian,  how  much  for  the  tie?'     'Fine 
tie,'  another,  a  stranger,  observed.     '  You  bagged 
it  from  the  kitten,  didn't  you  ? ' 
26 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

Then  they  made  up  a  game  of  cricket,  and  he 
was  put  in  first.  He  was  l.b.w.  in  his  second  over, 
so  they  all  said,  and  had  to  field  for  the  rest  of  the 
afternoon.  Arthur  Dixon,  who  was  about  his 
own  age,  forgetting  all  the  laws  of  hospitality, 
told  him  he  was  a  beastly  muff  when  he  missed  a 
catch,  rather  a  difficult  catch.  He  missed  several 
catches,  and  it  seemed  as  if  he  were  always  pant- 
ing after  balls,  which,  as  Edward  Dixon  said,  any 
fool,  even  a  baby,  could  have  stopped.  At  last 
the  game  broke  up,  solely  from  Lucian's  lack  of 
skill,  as  everybody  declared.  Edward  Dixon, 
who  was  thirteen,  and  had  a  swollen  red  face  and 
a  projecting  eye,  wanted  to  fight  him  for  spoiling 
the  game,  and  the  others  agreed  that  he  funked 
the  fight  in  a  rather  dirty  manner.  The  strange 
boy,  who  was  called  De  Carti,  and  was  under- 
stood to  be  distantly  related  to  Lord  De  Carti  of 
M'Carthytown,  said  openly  that  the  fellows  at  his 
place  wouldn't  stand  such  a  sneak  for  five  minutes. 
So  the  afternoon  passed  off  very  pleasantly  in- 
deed, till  it  was  time  to  go  into  the  vicarage  for 
weak  tea,  home-made  cake,  and  unripe  plums. 
He  got  away  at  last.  As  he  went  out  at  the  gate 
he  heard  De  Carti's  final  observation  : 

'We  like  to  dress  well  at  our  place.  His 
27 


THE   HILL   OF  DREAMS 

governor  must  be  beastly  poor  to  let  him  go 
about  like  that.  D'y'  see  his  trousers  are  all 
ragged  at  heel?  Is  old  Taylor  a  gentleman?' 
It  had  been  a  very  gentlemanly  afternoon,  but 
there  was  a  certain  relief  when  the  vicarage  was 
far  behind,  and  the  evening  smoke  of  the  little 
town,  once  the  glorious  capital  of  Siluria,  hung 
haze-like  over  the  ragged  roofs  and  mingled  with 
the  river  mist.  He  looked  down  from  the  height 
of  the  road  on  the  huddled  houses,  saw  the  points 
of  light  start  out  suddenly  from  the  cottages  on 
the  hillside  beyond,  and  gazed  at  the  long  lovely 
valley  fading  in  the  twilight,  till  the  darkness 
came  and  all  that  remained  was  the  sombre  ridge 
of  the  forest.  The  way  was  pleasant  through  the 
solemn  scented  lane,  with  glimpses  of  dim  country, 
the  vague  mystery  of  night  overshadowing  the 
woods  and  meadows.  A  warm  wind  blew  gusts 
of  odour  from  the  meadowsweet  by  the  brook, 
now  and  then  bee  and  beetle  span  homeward 
through  the  air,  booming  a  deep  note  as  from  a 
great  organ  far  away,  and  from  the  verge  of  the 
wood  came  the  '  who-oo,  who-oo,  who-oo '  of  the 
owls,  a  wild  strange  sound  that  mingled  with 
the  whirr  and  rattle  of  the  night-jar,  deep  in  the 
bracken.  The  moon  swam  up  through  the  films 
28 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

of  misty  cloud,  and  hung,  a  golden  glorious 
lantern,  in  mid-air ;  and,  set  in  the  dusky  hedge, 
the  little  green  fires  of  the  glowworms  appeared. 
He  sauntered  slowly  up  the  lane,  drinking  in  the 
religion  of  the  scene,  and  thinking  the  country  by 
night  as  mystic  and  wonderful  as  a  dimly-lit 
cathedral.  He  had  quite  forgotten  the  'manly 
young  fellows '  and  their  sports,  and  only  wished 
as  the  land  began  to  shimmer  and  gleam  in  the 
moonlight  that  he  knew  by  some  medium  of 
words  or  colour  how  to  represent  the  loveliness 
about  his  way. 

'  Had  a  pleasant  evening,  Lucian  ? '  said  his 
father  when  he  came  in. 

'Yes,  I  had  a  nice  walk  home.  Oh,  in  the 
afternoon  we  played  cricket.  I  didn't  care  for  it 
much.  There  was  a  boy  named  De  Carti  there, 
he  is  staying  with  the  Dixons.  Mrs.  Dixon 
whispered  to  me  when  we  were  going  in  to  tea, 
"  He's  a  second  cousin  of  Lord  De  Carti's,"  and 
she  looked  quite  grave  as  if  she  were  in  church.' 

The  parson  grinned  grimly  and  lit  his  old  pipe. 

'  Baron    De   Carti's    great-grandfather   was   a 

Dublin    attorney,'    he    remarked.     'Which    his 

name  was  Jeremiah  M'Carthy.     His  prejudiced 

fellow-citizens  called  him   the   Unjust   Steward, 

29 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

also  the  Bloody  Attorney,  and  I  believe  that 
"to  hell  with  M'Carthy"  was  quite  a  popular 
cry  about  the  time  of  the  Union.' 

Mr.  Taylor  was  a  man  of  very  wide  and 
irregular  reading  and  a  tenacious  memory ;  he 
often  used  to  wonder  why  he  had  not  risen  in  the 
Church.  He  had  once  told  Mr.  Dixon  a  singular 
and  drolatique  anecdote  concerning  the  bishop's 
college  days,  and  he  never  discovered  why  the 
prelate  did  not  bow  according  to  his  custom 
when  the  name  of  Taylor  was  called  at  the  next 
visitation.  Some  people  said  the  reason  was 
lighted  candles,  but  that  was  impossible,  as  the 
Reverend  and  Honourable  Smallwood  Stafford, 
Lord  Beamys's  son,  who  had  a  cure  of  souls  in  the 
cathedral  city,  was  well  known  to  burn  no  end  of 
candles,  and  with  him  the  bishop  was  on  the  best 
of  terms.  Indeed  the  bishop  often  stayed  at 
Coplesey  (pronounced  '  Copsey ')  Hall,  Lord 
Beamys's  place  in  the  west. 

Lucian  had  mentioned  the  name  of  De  Carti 
with  intention,  and  had  perhaps  exaggerated  a 
little  Mrs.  Dixon's  respectful  manner.  He  knew 
such  incidents  cheered  his  father,  who  could  never 
look  at  these  subjects  from  a  proper  point  of  view, 
and,  as  people  said,  sometimes  made  the  strangest 
30 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

remarks  for  a  clergyman.  This  irreverent  way 
of  treating  serious  things  was  one  of  the  great 
bonds  between  father  and  son,  but  it  tended  to 
increase  their  isolation.  People  said  they  would 
often  have  liked  to  ask  Mr.  Taylor  to  garden- 
parties,  and  tea-parties,  and  other  cheap  enter- 
tainments, if  only  he  had  not  been  such  an 
extreme  man  and  so  queer.  Indeed,  a  year  before, 
Mr.  Taylor  had  gone  to  a  garden-party  at  the 
Castle.  Caermaen,  and  had  made  such  fun  of  the 
bishop's  recent  address  on  missions  to  the  Portu- 
guese, that  the  Gervases  and  Dixons  and  all  who 
heard  him  were  quite  shocked  and  annoyed. 
And,  as  Mrs.  Meyrick  of  Lanyravon  observed, 
his  black  coat  was  perfectly  green  with  age ; 
so  on  the  whole  the  Gervases  did  not  like  to 
invite  Mr.  Taylor  again.  As  for  the  son,  no- 
body cared  to  have  him ;  Mrs.  Dixon,  as  she 
said  to  her  husband,  really  asked  him  out  of 
charity. 

'  I  am  afraid  he  seldom  gets  a  real  meal  at 
home,'  she  remarked,  'so  I  thought  he  would 
enjoy  a  good  wholesome  tea  for  once  in  a  way. 
But  he  is  such  an  unsatisfactory  boy,  he  would 
only  have  one  slice  of  that  nice  plain  cake,  and  I 
couldn't  get  him  to  take  more  than  two  plums. 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

They  were  really  quite  ripe  too,  and  boys  are 
usually  so  fond  of  fruit.' 

Thus  Lucian  was  forced  to  spend  his  holidays 
chiefly  in  his  own  company,  and  make  the  best 
he  could  of  the  ripe  peaches  on  the  south  wall  of 
the  rectory  garden.  There  was  a  certain  corner 
where  the  heat  of  that  hot  August  seemed  con- 
centrated, reverberated  from  one  wall  to  the  other, 
and  here  he  liked  to  linger  of  mornings,  when  the 
mists  were  still  thick  in  the  valleys,  'mooning/ 
meditating,  extending  his  walk  from  the  quince 
to  the  medlar  and  back  again,  beside  the  moulder- 
ing walls  of  mellowed  brick.  He  was  full  of  a 
certain  wonder  and  awe,  not  unmixed  with  a  swell 
of  strange  exultation,  and  wished  more  and  more 
to  be  alone,  to  think  over  that  wonderful  after- 
noon within  the  fort.  In  spite  of  himself  the 
impression  was  fading ;  he  could  not  understand 
that  feeling  of  mad  panic  terror  that  drove  him 
through  the  thicket  and  down  the  steep  hillside ; 
yet,  he  had  experienced  so  clearly  the  physical 
shame  and  reluctance  of  the  flesh  ;  he  recollected 
that  for  a  few  seconds  after  his  awakening  the 
sight  of  his  own  body  had  made  him  shudder  and 
writhe  as  if  it  had  suffered  some  profoundest 
degradation.  He  saw  before  him  a  vision  of  two 
3* 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

forms  ;  a  faun  with  tingling  and  pricking  flesh  lay 
expectant  in  the  sunlight,  and  there  was  also  the 
likeness  of  a  miserable  shamed  boy,  standing  with 
trembling  body  and  shaking,  unsteady  hands.  It 
was  all  confused,  a  procession  of  blurred  images, 
now  of  rapture  and  ecstasy,  and  now  of  terror 
and  shame,  floating  in  a  light  that  was  altogether 
phantasmal  and  unreal.  He  dared  not  approach 
the  fort  again ;  he  lingered  in  the  road  to  Caer- 
maen  that  passed  behind  it,  but  a  mile  away,  and 
separated  by  the  wild  land  and  a  strip  of  wood 
from  the  towering  battlements.  Here  he  was 
looking  over  a  gate  one  day,  doubtful  and  wonder- 
ing, when  he  heard  a  heavy  step  behind  him,  and 
glancing  round  quickly  saw  it  was  old  Morgan  of 
the  White  House. 

'  Good  afternoon,  Master  Lucian,'  he  began. 
'  Mr.  Taylor  pretty  well,  I  suppose  ?  I  be  goin' 
to  the  house  a  minute ;  the  men  in  the  fields  are 
wantin'  some  more  cider.  Would  you  come  and 
taste  a  drop  of  cider,  Master  Lucian  ?  It's  very 
good,  sir,  indeed.' 

Lucian  did  not  want  any  cider,  but  he  thought 

it  would  please  old  Morgan  if  he  took  some,  so  he 

said  he  should  like  to  taste  the  cider  very  much 

indeed.     Morgan  was  a  sturdy,  thick-set  old  man 

D  33 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

of  the  ancient  stock ;  a  stiff  churchman,  who 
breakfasted  regularly  on  fat  broth  and  Caerphilly 
cheese  in  the  fashion  of  his  ancestors  ;  hot,  spiced 
elder  wine  was  for  winter  nights,  and  gin  for  festal 
seasons.  The  farm  had  always  been  the  freehold 
of  the  family,  and  when  Lucian,  in  the  wake  of 
the  yeoman,  passed  through  the  deep  porch  by 
the  oaken  door,  down  into  the  long  dark  kitchen, 
he  felt  as  though  the  seventeenth  century  still 
lingered  on.  One  mullioned  window,  set  deep  in 
the  sloping  wall,  gave  all  the  light  there  was 
through  quarries  of  thick  glass  in  which  there 
were  whorls  and  circles,  so  that  the  lapping  rose- 
branch  and  the  garden  and  the  fields  beyond  were 
distorted  to  the  sight.  Two  heavy  beams,  oaken 
but  whitewashed,  ran  across  the  ceiling ;  a  little 
glow  of  fire  sparkled  in  the  great  fireplace,  and  a 
curl  of  blue  smoke  fled  up  the  cavern  of  the 
chimney.  Here  was  the  genuine  chimney-corner 
of  our  fathers ;  there  were  seats  on  each  side 
of  the  fireplace  where  one  could  sit  snug  and 
sheltered  on  December  nights,  warm  and  merry 
in  the  blazing  light,  and  listen  to  the  battle  of  the 
storm,  and  hear  the  flame  spit  and  hiss  at  the 
falling  snowflakes.  At  the  back  of  the  fire  were 
34 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

great  blackened  tiles  with  raised  initials  and  a 
date— I.M.,  1684. 

'  Sit  down,  Master  Lucian,  sit  down,  sir,'  said 
Morgan. 

'Annie,'  he  called  through  one  of  the  numerous 
doors, '  here's  Master  Lucian,  the  parson,  would 
like  a  drop  of  cider.  Fetch  a  jug,  will  you, 
directly  ? ' 

'Very  well,  father,'  came  the  voice  from  the 
dairy,  and  presently  the  girl  entered,  wiping  the 
jug  she  held.  In  his  boyish  way  Lucian  had  been 
a  good  deal  disturbed  by  Annie  Morgan ;  he 
could  see  her  on  Sundays  from  his  seat  in  church, 
and  her  skin,  curiously  pale,  her  lips  that  seemed 
as  though  they  were  stained  with  some  brilliant 
pigment,  her  black  hair,  and  the  quivering  black 
eyes,  gave  him  odd  fancies  which  he  had  hardly 
shaped  to  himself.  Annie  had  grown  into  a 
woman  in  three  years,  and  he  was  still  a  boy. 
She  came  into  the  kitchen,  curtsying  and  smiling. 

'  Good-day,  Master  Lucian,  and  how  is  Mr. 
Taylor,  sir  ? ' 

'  Pretty  well,  thank  you.    I  hope  you  are  well.' 

'  Nicely,  sir,  thank  you.     How  nice  your  voice 
do  sound  in  church,  Master  Lucian,  to  be  sure.     I 
was  telling  father  about  it  last  Sunday.' 
35 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

Lucian  grinned  and  felt  uncomfortable,  and  the 
girl  set  down  the  jug  on  the  round  table  and 
brought  a  glass  from  the  dresser.  She  bent  close 
over  him  as  she  poured  out  the  green  oily  cider, 
fragrant  of  the  orchard  ;  her  hand  touched  his 
shoulder  for  a  moment,  and  she  said,  '  I  beg  your 
pardon,  sir,'  very  prettily.  He  looked  up  eagerly 
at  her  face  ;  the  black  eyes,  a  little  oval  in  shape, 
were  shining,  and  the  lips  smiled.  Annie  wore  a 
plain  dress  of  some  black  stuff,  open  at  the  throat ; 
her  skin  was  beautiful.  For  a  moment  the  ghost  of 
a  fancy  hovered  unsubstantial  in  his  mind  ;  and 
then  Annie  curtsied  as  she  handed  him  the  cider, 
and  replied  to  his  thanks  with,  '  And  welcome 
kindly,  sir.' 

The  drink  was  really  good  ;  not  thin,  nor  sweet, 
but  round  and  full  and  generous,  with  a  fine 
yellow  flame  twinkling  through  the  green  when 
one  held  it  up  to  the  light.  It  was  like  a  stray 
sunbeam  hovering  on  the  grass  in  a  deep  orchard, 
and  he  swallowed  the  glassful  with  relish,  and  had 
some  more,  warmly  commending  it.  Mr.  Morgan 
was  touched. 

'  I  see  you  do  know  a  good  thing,  sir/  he  said. 
'  Iss,  indeed,  now,  it's  good  stuff,  though  it's  my 
own  makin'.  My  old  grandfather  he  planted  the 
36 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

trees  in  the  time  of  the  wars,  and  he  was  a  very 
good  judge  of  an  apple  in  his  day  and  generation. 
And  a  famous  grafter  he  was,  to  be  sure.  You 
will  never  see  no  swelling  in  the  trees  he  grafted 
at  all  whatever.  Now  there's  James  Morris,  Peny- 
rhaul,  he's  a  famous  grafter,  too,  and  yet  them 
Redstreaks  he  grafted  for  me  five  year  ago,  they 
be  all  swollen-like  below  the  graft  already.  Would 
you  like  to  taste  a  Blemmin  pippin,  now,  Master 
Lucian  ?  there  be  a  few  left  in  the  loft,  I  believe.' 

Lucian  said  he  should  like  an  apple  very  much, 
and  the  farmer  went  out  by  another  door,  and 
Annie  stayed  in  the  kitchen  talking.  She  said 
Mrs.  Trevor,  her  married  sister,  was  coming  to 
them  soon  to  spend  a  few  days. 

'She's  got  such  a  beautiful  baby,'  said  Annie, 
and  he's  quite  sensible-like  already,  though  he's 
only  nine  months  old.  Mary  would  like  to  see 
you,  sir,  if  you  would  be  so  kind  as  to  step  in ; 
that  is,  if  it's  not  troubling  you  at  all,  Master 
Lucian.  I  suppose  you  must  be  getting  a  fine 
scholar  now,  sir  ? ' 

'  I  am  doing  pretty  well,  thank  you,'  said  the 
boy.  '  I  was  first  in  my  form  last  term.' 

'  Fancy !  To  think  of  that !  D'you  hear, 
father,  what  a  scholar  Master  Lucian  be  getting?' 
37 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

'  He  be  a  rare  grammarian,  I'm  sure,'  said  the 
farmer.  '  You  do  take  after  your  father,  sir  ;  I 
always  do  say  that  nobody  have  got  such  a  good 
deliverance  in  the  pilpit' 

Lucian  did  not  find  the  Blenheim  Orange  as 
good  as  the  cider,  but  he  ate  it  with  all  the 
appearance  of  relish,  and  put  another,  with 
thanks,  into  his  pocket.  He  thanked  the  farmer 
again  when  he  got  up  to  go ;  and  Annie  curtsied 
and  smiled,  and  wished  him  good-day,  and  wel- 
come, kindly. 

Lucian  heard  her  saying  to  her  father  as  he 
went  out  what  a  nice-mannered  young  gentleman 
he  was  getting,  to  be  sure ;  and  he  went  on  his 
way,  thinking  that  Annie  was  really  very  pretty, 
and  speculating  as  to  whether  he  would  have  the 
courage  to  kiss  her,  if  they  met  in  a  dark  lane. 
He  was  quite  sure  she  would  only  laugh,  and  say, 
'  Oh,  Master  Lucian ! ' 

For  many  months  he  had  occasional  fits  of 
recollection,  both  cold  and  hot;  but  the  bridge  of 
time,  gradually  lengthening,  made  those  dreadful 
and  delicious  images  grow  more  and  more  indis- 
tinct, till  at  last  they  all  passed  into  that  wonder- 
land which  a  youth  looks  back  upon  in  amazement, 
not  knowing  why  this  used  to  be  a  symbol  of 
38 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

terror  or  that  of  joy.  At  the  end  of  each  term  he 
would  come  home  and  find  his  father  a  little 
more  despondent,  and  harder  to  cheer  even  for  a 
moment ;  and  the  wall  paper  and  the  furniture 
grew  more  and  more  dingy  and  shabby.  The 
two  cats,  loved  and  ancient  beasts,  that  he  re- 
membered when  he  was  quite  a  little  boy,  before 
he  went  to  school,  died  miserably,  one  after  the 
other.  Old  Polly,  the  pony,  at  last  fell  down  in 
the  stable  from  the  weakness  of  old  age,  and  had 
to  be  killed  there;  the  battered  old  trap  ran  no 
longer  along  the  well-remembered  lanes.  There 
was  long  meadow  grass  on  the  lawn,  and  the 
trained  fruit  trees  on  the  wall  had  got  quite  out  of 
hand.  At  last,  when  Lucian  was  seventeen,  his 
father  was  obliged  to  take  him  from  school ;  he 
could  no  longer  afford  the  fees.  This  was  the 
sorry  ending  of  many  hopes,  and  dreams  of  a 
double-first,  a  fellowship,  distinction  and  glory 
that  the  poor  parson  had  long  entertained  for  his 
son,  and  the  two  moped  together,  in  the  shabby 
room,  one  on  each  side  of  the  sulky  fire,  thinking 
of  dead  days  and  finished  plans,  and  seeing  a  grey 
future  in  the  years  that  advanced  towards  them. 
At  one  time  there  seemed  some  chance  of  a  dis- 
tant relative  coming  forward  to  Lucian's  assist- 
39 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

ance ;  and  indeed  it  was  quite  settled  that  he 
should  go  up  to  London  with  certain  definite 
aims.  Mr.  Taylor  told  the  good  news  to  his 
acquaintances — his  coat  was  too  green  now  for 
any  pretence  of  friendship;  and  Lucian  himself 
spoke  of  his  plans  to  Burrows  the  doctor  and  Mr. 
Dixon,  and  one  or  two  others.  Then  the  whole 
scheme  fell  through,  and  the  parson  and  his 
son  suffered  much  sympathy.  People,  of  course, 
had  to  say  they  were  sorry,  but  in  reality 
the  news  was  received  with  high  spirits,  with 
the  joy  with  which  one  sees  a  stone,  as  it  rolls 
down  a  steep  place,  give  yet  another  bounding 
leap  towards  the  pool  beneath.  Mrs.  Dixon  heard 
the  pleasant  tidings  from  Mrs.  Colley,  who  came 
in  to  talk  about  the  Mothers'  Meeting  and  the 
Band  of  Hope.  Mrs.  Dixon  was  nursing  little 
^Ethelwig,  or  some  such  name,  at  the  time,  and 
made  many  affecting  observations  on  the  general 
righteousness  with  which  the  world  was  governed. 
Indeed,  poor  Lucian's  disappointment  seemed 
distinctly  to  increase  her  faith  in  the  Divine 
Order,  as  if  it  had  been  some  example  in  Butler's 
Analogy. 

'  Aren't  Mr.  Taylor's  views  very  extreme  ? '  she 
said  to  her  husband  the  same  evening. 
40 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

'  I  am  afraid  they  are,'  he  replied.  '  I  was  quite 
grieved  at  the  last  Diocesan  Conference  at  the 
way  in  which  he  spoke.  The  dear  old  bishop  had 
given  an  address  on  Auricular  Confession  ;  he 
was  forced  to  do  so,  you  know,  after  what  had 
happened,  and  I  must  say  that  I  never  felt 
prouder  of  our  beloved  Church.' 

Mr.  Dixon  told  all  the  Homeric  story  of  the 
conference,  reciting  the  achievements  of  the  cham- 
pions, 'deploring'  this  and  applauding  that.  It 
seemed  that  Mr.  Taylor  had  had  the  audacity  to 
quote  authorities  which  the  bishop  could  not  very 
well  repudiate,  though  they  were  directly  opposed 
to  the  '  safe '  episcopal  pronouncement. 

Mrs.  Dixon  of  course  was  grieved ;  it  was  'sad' 
to  think  of  a  clergyman  behaving  so  shamefully. 

'  But  you  know,  dear,'  she  proceeded,  '  I  have 
been  thinking  about  that  unfortunate  Taylor  boy 
and  his  disappointments,  and  after  what  you've 
just  told  me,  I  am  sure  it's  some  kind  of  judg- 
ment on  them  both.  Has  Mr.  Taylor  forgotten 
the  vows  he  took  at  his  ordination  ?  But  don't 
you  think,  dear,  I  am  right,  and  that  he  has  been 
punished :  "  The  sins  of  the  fathers  "  ? ' 

Somehow  or  other  Lucian  divined  this  atmos- 
phere of  threatenings  and  judgments,  and  shrank 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

more  and  more  from  the  small  society  of  the 
countryside.  For  his  part,  when  he  was  not 
'mooning'  in  the  beloved  fields  and  woods  of 
happy  memory,  he  shut  himself  up  with  books, 
reading  whatever  could  be  found  on  the  shelves, 
and  amassing  a  store  of  incongruous  and  obsolete 
knowledge.  Long  did  he  linger  with  the  men  of 
the  seventeenth  century ;  delaying  in  the  gay 
sunlit  streets  with  Pepys,  and  listening  to  the 
charmed  sound  of  the  Restoration  Revel ;  roam- 
ing by  peaceful  streams  with  Izaak  Walton,  and 
the  great  Catholic  divines ;  enchanted  with  the 
portrait  of  Herbert  the  loving  ascetic ;  awed  by  the 
mystic  breath  of  Crashaw.  Then  the  cavalier 
poets  sang  their  gallant  songs ;  and  Hcrrick  made 
Dean  Prior  magic  ground  by  the  holy  incanta- 
tion of  a  verse.  And  in  the  old  proverbs  and 
homely  sayings  of  the  time  he  found  the  good 
and  beautiful  English  life,  a  time  full  of  grace  and 
dignity  and  rich  merriment.  He  dived  deeper 
and  deeper  into  his  books;  he  had  taken  all  obso- 
lescence to  be  his  province  ;  in  his  disgust  at  the 
stupid  usual  questions, '  Will  it  pay? '  '  What  good 
is  it  ? '  and  so  forth,  he  would  only  read  what  was 
uncouth  and  useless.  The  strange  pomp  and 
symbolism  of  the  Cabala,  with  its  hint  of  more 
4* 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

terrible  things ;  the  Rosicrucian  mysteries  of 
Fludd,  the  enigmas  of  Vaughan,  dreams  of  al- 
chemists— all  these  were  his  delight.  Such  were 
his  companions,  with  the  hills  and  hanging  woods, 
the  brooks  and  lonely  waterpools ;  books,  the 
thoughts  of  books,  the  stirrings  of  imagination, 
all  fused  into  one  phantasy  by  the  magic  of  the 
outland  country.  He  held  himself  aloof  from  the 
walls  of  the  fort ;  he  was  content  to  see  the 
heaped  mounds,  the  violent  height  with  faery 
bulwarks,  from  the  gate  in  the  lane,  and  to  leave 
all  within  the  ring  of  oaks  in  the  mystery  of  his 
boyhood's  vision.  He  professed  to  laugh  at  him- 
self and  at  his  fancies  of  that  hot  August  after- 
noon, when  sleep  came  to  him  within  the  thicket, 
but  in  his  heart  of  hearts  there  was  something 
that  never  faded — something  that  glowed  like  the 
red  glint  of  a  gypsy's  fire  seen  from  afar  across 
the  hills  and  mists  of  the  night,  and  known  to  be 
burning  in  a  wild  land.  Sometimes,  when  he  was 
sunken  in  his  books,  the  flame  of  delight  shot  up, 
and  showed  him  a  whole  province  and  continent 
of  his  nature,  all  shining  and  aglow ;  and  in  the 
midst  of  the  exultation  and  triumph  he  would 
draw  back,  a  little  afraid.  He  had  become  ascetic 
in  his  studious  and  melancholy  isolation,  and  the 

43 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

vision  of  such  ecstasies  frightened  him.  He  began 
to  write  a  little ;  at  first  very  tentatively  and 
feebly,  and  then  with  more  confidence.  He 
showed  some  of  his  verses  to  his  father,  who  told 
him  with  a  sigh  that  he  had  once  hoped  to  write — 
in  the  old  days  at  Oxford,  he  added. 

'  They  are  very  nicely  done/  said  the  parson  ; 
'  but  I'm  afraid  you  won't  find  anybody  to  print 
them,  my  boy.' 

So  he  pottered  on ;  reading  everything, 
imitating  what  struck  his  fancy,  attempting  the 
effect  of  the  classic  metres  in  English  verse,  try- 
ing his  hand  at  a  masque,  a  Restoration  comedy, 
forming  impossible  plans  for  books  which  rarely 
got  beyond  half  a  dozen  lines  on  a  sheet  of 
paper ;  beset  with  splendid  fancies  which  refused 
to  abide  before  the  pen.  But  the  vain  joy  of  con- 
ception was  not  altogether  vain,  for  it  gave  him 
some  armour  about  his  heart. 

The  months  went  by,  monotonous,  and  some- 
times blotted  with  despair.  He  wrote  and 
planned  and  filled  the  waste-paper  basket  with 
hopeless  efforts.  Now  and  then  he  sent  verses 
or  prose  articles  to  magazines,  in  pathetic  igno- 
rance of  the  trade.  He  felt  the  immense  diffi- 
culty of  the  career  of  literature  without  clearly 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

understanding  it;  the  battle  was  happily  in  a 
mist,  so  that  the  host  of  the  enemy,  terribly 
arrayed,  was  to  some  extent  hidden.  Yet  there 
was  enough  of  difficulty  to  appal ;  from  following 
the  intricate  course  of  little  nameless  brooks, 
from  hushed  twilight  woods,  from  the  vision  of 
the  mountains,  and  the  breath  of  the  great  wind, 
passing  from  deep  to  deep,  he  would  come  home 
filled  with  thoughts  and  emotions,  mystic  fancies 
which  he  yearned  to  translate  into  the  written 
word.  And  the  result  of  the  effort  seemed 
always  to  be  bathos !  Wooden  sentences,  a  por- 
tentous stilted  style,  obscurity,  and  awkwardness 
clogged  the  pen  ;  it  seemed  impossible  to  win  the 
great  secret  of  language ;  the  stars  glittered  only 
in  the  darkness,  and  vanished  away  in  clearer 
light.  The  periods  of  despair  were  often  long 
and  heavy,  the  victories  very  few  and  trifling ; 
night  after  night  he  sat  writing  after  his  father 
had  knocked  out  his  last  pipe,  filling  a  page  with 
difficulty  in  an  hour,  and  usually  forced  to  thrust 
the  stuff  away  in  despair,  and  go  unhappily  to 
bed,  conscious  that  after  all  his  labour  he  had 
done  nothing.  And  these  were  moments  when 
the  accustomed  vision  of  the  land  alarmed  him, 
and  the  wild  domed  hills  and  darkling  woods 

45 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

seemed  symbols  of  some  terrible  secret  in  the 
inner  life  of  that  stranger — himself.  Sometimes 
when  he  was  deep  in  his  books  and  papers,  some- 
times on  a  lonely  walk,  sometimes  amidst  the 
tiresome  chatter  of  Caermaen  '  society,'  he  would 
thrill  with  a  sudden  sense  of  awful  hidden  things, 
and  there  ran  that  quivering  flame  through  his 
nerves  that  brought  back  the  recollection  of  the 
matted  thicket,  and  that  earlier  appearance  of 
the  bare  black  boughs  enwrapped  with  flames. 
Indeed,  though  he  avoided  the  solitary  lane,  and 
the  sight  of  the  sheer  height,  with  its  ring  of  oaks 
and  moulded  mounds,  the  image  of  it  grew  more 
intense  as  the  symbol  of  certain  hints  and  sugges- 
tions. The  exultant  and  insurgent  flesh  seemed 
to  have  its  temple  and  castle  within  those  olden 
walls,  and  he  longed  with  all  his  heart  to  escape, 
to  set  himself  free  in  the  wilderness  of  London, 
and  to  be  secure  amidst  the  murmur  of  modern 
streets. 


46 


II 


LUCIAN  was  growing  really  anxious  about  his 
manuscript.  He  had  gained  enough  experience 
at  twenty-three  to  know  that  editors  and  pub- 
lishers must  not  be  hurried  ;  but  his  book  had 
been  lying  at  Messrs.  Beit's  office  for  more  than 
three  months.  For  six  weeks  he  had  not  dared 
to  expect  an  answer,  but  afterwards  life  had 
become  agonising.  Every  morning,  at  post- 
time,  the  poor  wretch  nearly  choked  with  anxiety 
to  know  whether  his  sentence  had  arrived,  and 
the  rest  of  the  day  was  racked  with  alternate 
pangs  of  hope  and  despair.  Now  and  then  he 
was  almost  assured  of  success;  conning  over 
these  painful  and  eager  pages  in  memory,  he 
found  parts  that  were  admirable,  while  again,  his 
inexperience  reproached  him,  and  he  feared  he 
had  written  a  raw  and  awkward  book,  wholly 
unfit  for  print.  Then  he  would  compare  what  he 
remembered  of  it  with  notable  magazine  articles 
and  books  praised  by  reviewers,  and  fancy  that 
47 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

after  all  there  might  be  good  points  in  the  thing ; 
he  could  not  help  liking  the  first  chapter  for 
instance.  Perhaps  the  letter  might  come  to- 
morrow. So  it  went  on  ;  week  after  week  of  sick 
torture  made  more  exquisite  by  such  gleams  of 
hope ;  it  was  as  if  he  were  stretched  in  anguish 
on  the  rack,  and  the  pain  relaxed  and  kind  words 
spoken  now  and  again  by  the  tormentors,  and 
then  once  more  the  grinding  pang  and  burning 
agony.  At  last  he  could  bear  suspense  no  longer, 
and  he  wrote  to  Messrs.  Beit,  inquiring  in  a 
humble  manner  whether  the  manuscript  had 
arrived  in  safety.  The  firm  replied  in  a  very 
polite  letter,  expressing  regret  that  their  reader 
had  been  suffering  from  a  cold  in  the  head,  and 
had  therefore  been  unable  to  send  in  his  report. 
A  final  decision  was  promised  in  a  week's  time, 
and  the  letter  ended  with  apologies  for  the  delay 
and  a  hope  that  he  had  suffered  no  inconvenience. 
Of  course  the  '  final  decision '  did  not  come  at  the 
end  of  the  week,  but  the  book  was  returned  at 
the  end  of  three  weeks,  with  a  circular  thanking 
the  author  for  his  kindness  in  submitting  the 
manuscript,  and  regretting  that  the  firm  did  not 
see  their  way  to  producing  it.  He  felt  relieved  ; 
the  operation  that  he  had  dreaded  and  depre- 
48 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

cated  for  so  long  was  at  last  over,  and  he  would 
no  longer  grow  sick  of  mornings  when  the  letters 
were  brought  in.  He  took  his  parcel  to  the 
sunny  corner  of  the  garden,  where  the  old 
wooden  seat  stood  sheltered  from  the  !biting 
March  winds.  Messrs.  Beit  had  put  in  with  the 
circular  one  of  their  short  lists,  a  neat  booklet, 
headed  :  Messrs.  Beit  &  Co.'s  Recent  Publications. 
He  settled  himself  comfortably  on  the  seat,  lit 
his  pipe,  and  began  to  read  :  '  A  Bad  Un  to  Beat : 
a  Novel  of  Sporting  Life,  by  the  Honourable 
Mrs.  Scudamore  Runnymede,  author  of  Yoicks, 
With  the  Mudshire  Pack,  The  Sportleigh  Stables, 
etc.,  etc.,  3  vols.  At  all  Libraries.'  The  Press, 
it  seemed,  pronounced  this  to  be  'a  charming 
book.  Mrs.  Runnymede  has  wit  and  humour 
enough  to  furnish  forth  half-a-dozen  ordinary 
sporting  novels.'  '  Told  with  the  sparkle  and 
vivacity  of  a  past-mistress  in  the  art  of  novel 
writing,1  said  the  Review;  while  Miranda,  of 
Smart  Society,  positively  bubbled  with  enthu- 
siasm. 'You  must  forgive  me,  Aminta,'  wrote 
this  young  person,  'if  I  have  not  sent  the  de- 
scription I  promised  of  Madame  Lulu's  new 
creations  and  others  of  that  ilk,  I  must  a  tale 
unfold ;  Tom  came  in  yesterday  and  began  to 
E  49 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

rave  about  the  Honourable  Mrs.  Scudamore 
Runnymede's  last  novel,  A  Bad  Un  to  Beat.  He 
says  all  the  Smart  Set  are  talking  of  it,  and  it 
seems  the  police  have  to  regulate  the  crowd  at 
Mudie's.  You  know  I  read  everything  Mrs. 
Runnymede  writes,  so  I  sent  out  Miggs  directly 
to  beg,  borrow  or  steal  a  copy,  and  I  confess  I 
burnt  the  midnight  oil  before  I  laid  it  down. 
Now,  mind  you  get  it,  you  will  find  it  so  awfully 
chic.'  Nearly  all  the  novelists  on  Messrs.  Beit's 
list  were  ladies,  their  works  all  ran  to  three 
volumes,  and  all  of  them  pleased  the  Press,  the 
Review,  and  Miranda  of  Smart  Society,  One 
of  these  books,  Millicenfs  Marriage,  by  Sarah 
Pocklington  Sanders,  was  pronounced  fit  to  lie 
on  the  schoolroom  table,  on  the  drawing-room 
bookshelf,  or  beneath  the  pillow  of  the  most 
gently  nurtured  of  our  daughters.  '  This,'  the 
reviewer  went  on,  c  is  high  praise,  especially  in 
these  days  when  we  are  deafened  by  the  loud- 
voiced  clamour  of  self-styled  "  artists."  We  would 
warn  the  young  men  who  prate  so  persistently 
of  style  and  literature,  construction  and  prose 
harmonies,  that  we  believe  the  English  reading 
public  will  have  none  of  them.  Harmless  amuse- 
ment, a  gentle  flow  of  domestic  interest,  a  faith- 
5° 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

ful  reproduction  of  the  open  and  manly  life  of  the 
hunting  field,  pictures  of  innocent  and  healthy 
English  girlhood  such  as  Miss  Sanders  here 
affords  us ;  these  are  the  topics  that  will  always 
find  a  welcome  in  our  homes,  which  remain  bolted 
and  barred  against  the  abandoned  artist  and  the 
scrofulous  stylist.' 

He  turned  over  the  pages  of  the  little  book  and 
chuckled  in  high  relish ;  he  discovered  an  honest 
enthusiasm,  a  determination  to  strike  a  blow  for 
the  good  and  true  that  refreshed  and  exhilarated. 
A  beaming  face,  spectacled  and  whiskered  prob- 
ably, an  expansive  waistcoat,  and  a  tender  heart, 
seemed  to  shine  through  the  words  which  Messrs. 
Beit  had  quoted ;  and  the  alliteration  of  the  final 
sentence  ;  that  was  good  too  ;  there  was  style  for 
you  if  you  wanted  it.  The  champion  of  the 
blushing  cheek  and  the  gushing  eye  showed  that 
he  too  could  handle  the  weapons  of  the  enemy  if 
he  cared  to  trouble  himself  with  such  things. 
Lucian  leant  back  and  roared  with  indecent 
laughter  till  the  tabby  tom-cat  who  had  succeeded 
to  the  poor  dead  beasts  looked  up  reproachfully 
from  his  sunny  corner,  with  a  face  like  the  re- 
viewer's, innocent  and  round  and  whiskered.  At 
last  he  turned  to  his  parcel  and  drew  out  some 
5' 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

half-dozen  sheets  of  manuscript,  and  began  to 
read  in  a  rather  desponding  spirit ;  it  was  pretty 
obvious,  he  thought,  that  the  stuff  was  poor  and 
beneath  the  standard  of  publication.  The  book 
had  taken  a  year  and  a  half  in  the  making ;  it 
was  a  pious  attempt  to  translate  into  English 
prose  the  form  and  mystery  of  the  domed  hills, 
the  magic  of  occult  valleys,  the  sound  of  the  red 
swollen  brook  swirling  through  leafless  woods. 
Day-dreams  and  toil  at  nights  had  gone  into  the 
eager  pages,  he  had  laboured  hard  to  do  his  very 
best,  writing  and  rewriting,  weighing  his  cadences, 
beginning  over  and  over  again,  grudging  no 
patience,  no  trouble  if  only  it  might  be  pretty 
good  ;  good  enough  to  print  and  sell  to  a  reading 
public  which  had  become  critical.  He  glanced 
through  the  manuscript  in  his  hand,  and  to  his 
astonishment,  he  could  not  help  thinking  that  in 
its  measure  it  was  decent  work.  After  three 
months  his  prose  seemed  fresh  and  strange  as  if 
it  had  been  wrought  by  another  man,  and  in  spite 
of  himself  he  found  charming  things,  and  impres- 
sions that  were  not  commonplace.  He  knew  how 
weak  it  all  was  compared  with  his  own  concep- 
tions ;  he  had  seen  an  enchanted  city,  awful, 
glorious,  with  flame  smitten  about  its  battlements, 
52 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

like  the  cities  of  the  Sangraal,  and  he  had  moulded 
his  copy  in  such  poor  clay  as  came  to  his  hand ; 
yet,  in  spite  of  the  gulf  that  yawned  between  the 
idea  and  the  work,  he  knew  as  he  read  that  the 
thing  accomplished  was  very  far  from  failure.  He 
put  back  the  leaves  carefully,  and  glanced  again 
at  Messrs.  Beit's  list.  It  had  escaped  his  notice 
that  A  Bad  Un  to  Beat  was  in  its  third  three- 
volume  edition.  It  was  a  great  thing,  at  all 
events,  to  know  in  what  direction  to  aim,  if  he 
wished  to  succeed.  If  he  worked  hard,  he  thought, 
he  might  some  day  win  the  approval  of  the  coy 
and  retiring  Miranda  of  Smart  Society ;  that 
modest  maiden  might  in  his  praise  interrupt  her 
task  of  disinterested  advertisement,  her  philan- 
thropic counsels  to  '  go  to  Jumper's,  and  mind 
you  ask  for  Mr.  C.  Jumper,  who  will  show  you 
the  lovely  blue  paper  with  the  yellow  spots  at  ten 
shillings  the  piece.'  He  put  down  the  pamphlet, 
and  laughed  again  at  the  books  and  the  reviewers: 
so  that  he  might  not  weep.  This  then  was  English 
fiction,  this  was  English  criticism,  and  farce,  after 
all,  was  but  an  ill-played  tragedy. 

The  rejected  manuscript  was  hidden  away,  and 
his   father  quoted    Horace's    maxim   as   to   the 
benefit  of  keeping  literary  works  some  time  '  in 
53 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

the  wood.'  There  was  nothing  to  grumble  at, 
though  Lucian  was  inclined  to  think  the  duration 
of  the  reader's  catarrh  a  little  exaggerated.  But 
this  was  a  trifle ;  he  did  not  arrogate  to  himself 
the  position  of  a  small  commercial  traveller,  who 
expects  prompt  civility  as  a  matter  of  course,  and 
not  at  all  as  a  favour.  He  simply  forgot  his  old 
book,  and  resolved  that  he  would  make  a  better 
one  if  he  could.  With  the  hot  fit  of  resolution, 
the  determination  not  to  be  snuffed  out  by  one 
refusal  upon  him,  he  began  to  beat  about  in  his 
mind  for  some  new  scheme.  At  first  it  seemed 
that  he  had  hit  upon  a  promising  subject ;  he 
began  to  plot  out  chapters  and  scribble  hints  for 
the  curious  story  that  had  entered  his  mind, 
arranging  his  circumstances  and  noting  the  effects 
to  be  produced  with  all  the  enthusiasm  of  the 
artist.  But  after  the  first  breath  the  aspect  of  the 
work  changed  ;  page  after  page  was  tossed  aside 
as  hopeless,  the  beautiful  sentences  he  had 
dreamed  of  refused  to  be  written,  and  his  puppets 
remained  stiff  and  wooden,  devoid  of  life  or 
motion.  Then  all  the  old  despairs  came  back,  the 
agonies  of  the  artificer  who  strives  and  perseveres 
in  vain  ;  the  scheme  that  seemed  of  amorous  fire 
turned  to  cold  hard  ice  in  his  hands.  He  let  the 
54 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

pen  drop  from  his  fingers,  and  wondered  how  he 
could  have  ever  dreamed  of  writing  books.  Again, 
the  thought  occurred  that  he  might  do  something 
if  he  could  only  get  away,  and  join  the  sad  pro- 
cession in  the  murmuring  London  streets,  far 
from  the  shadow  of  those  awful  hills.  But  it  was 
quite  impossible ;  the  relative  who  had  once  pro- 
mised assistance  was  appealed  to,  and  wrote 
expressing  his  regret  that  Lucian  had  turned  out 
a  '  loafer/  wasting  his  time  in  scribbling,  instead 
of  trying  to  earn  his  living.  Lucian  felt  rather 
hurt  at  this  letter,  but  the  parson  only  grinned 
grimly  as  usual.  He  was  thinking  of  how  he 
signed  a  cheque  many  years  before,  in  the  days 
of  his  prosperity,  and  the  cheque  was  payable  to 
the  didactic  relative,  then  in  but  a  poor  way,  and 
of  a  thankful  turn  of  mind. 

The  old  rejected  manuscript  had  almost  passed 
out  of  his  recollection.  It  was  recalled  oddly 
enough.  He  was  looking  over  the  Reader,  and 
enjoying  the  admirable  literary  criticisms,  some 
three  months  after  the  return  of  his  book,  when 
his  eye  was  attracted  by  a  quoted  passage  in  one 
of  the  notices.  The  thought  and  style  both 
wakened  memory,  the  cadences  were  familiar  and 
beloved.  He  read  through  the  review  from  the 
55 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

beginning ;   it  was  a  very  favourable   one,   and 
pronounced  the  volume  an  immense  advance  on 
Mr.  Ritson's  previous  work.    '  Here,  undoubtedly, 
the  author  has  discovered  a  vein  of  pure  metal,' 
the  reviewer  added,  '  and  we  predict  that  he  will 
go  far.'     Lucian  had  not  yet  reached  his  father's 
stage,  he  was  unable  to  grin  in  the  manner  of  that 
irreverent  parson.     The  passage  selected  for  high 
praise  was  taken  almost  word  for  word  from  the 
manuscript  now  resting  in  his  room,  the  work  that 
had   not  reached  the  high  standard  of  Messrs. 
Beit  &  Co.,  who,  curiously  enough,  were  the  pub- 
lishers of  the  book  reviewed  in  the  Reader.     He 
had  a  few  shillings  in  his  possession,  and  wrote  at 
once  to  a  bookseller  in  London  for  a  copy  of  The 
Chorus  in  Green,  as  the  author  had  oddly  named 
the  book.     He  wrote  on  June  2ist,  and  thought 
he  might  fairly  expect  to  receive  the  interesting 
volume  by  the  24th  ;  but  the  postman,  true  to  his 
traditions,  brought  nothing  for  him,  and  in  the 
afternoon  he  resolved  to  walk  down  to  Caermaen, 
in  case  it  might  have  come  by  a  second  post ;  or 
it  might  have  been  mislaid  at  the  office ;  they 
forgot  parcels  sometimes,  especially  when  the  bag 
was  heavy  and  the  weather  hot.     This  24th  was 
a  sultry  and  oppressive  day ;  a  grey  veil  of  cloud 
56 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

obscured  the  sky,  and  a  vaporous  mist  hung 
heavily  over  the  land,  and  fumed  up  from  the 
valleys.  But  at  five  o'clock,  when  he  started,  the 
clouds  began  to  break,  and  the  sunlight  suddenly 
streamed  down  through  the  misty  air,  making 
ways  and  channels  of  rich  glory,  and  bright 
islands  in  the  gloom.  It  was  a  pleasant  and 
shining  evening  when,  passing  by  devious  back 
streets  to  avoid  the  barbarians  (as  he  very  rudely 
called  the  respectable  inhabitants  of  the  town), 
he  reached  the  post-office ;  which  was  also  the 
general  shop. 

'  Yes,  Mr.  Taylor,  there  is  something  for  you, 
sir,'  said  the  man.  '  William  the  postman  forgot 
to  take  it  up  this  morning,'  and  he  handed  over 
the  packet.  Lucian  took  it  under  his  arm  and 
went  slowly  through  the  ragged  winding  lanes 
till  he  came  into  the  country.  He  got  over  the 
first  stile  on  the  road,  and  sitting  down  in  the 
shelter  of  a  hedge,  cut  the  strings  and  opened  the 
parcel.  The  Chorus  in  Green  was  got  up  in  what 
reviewers  call  a  dainty  manner:  a  bronze-green 
cloth,  well-cut  gold  lettering,  wide  margins  and 
black  'old-face'  type,  all  witnessed  to  the  good 
taste  of  Messrs.  Beit  &  Co.  He  cut  the  pages 
hastily  and  began  to  read.  He  soon  found  that 
57 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

he  had  wronged  Mr.  Ritson — that  old  literary 
hand  had  by  no  means  stolen  his  book  wholesale, 
as  he  had  expected.  There  were  about  two  hun- 
dred pages  in  the  pretty  little  volume,  and  of 
these  about  ninety  were  Lucian's,  dovetailed  into 
a  rather  different  scheme  with  skill  that  was  noth- 
ing short  of  exquisite.  And  Mr.  Ritson's  own 
work  was  often  very  good  ;  spoilt  here  and  there 
for  some  tastes  by  the  '  cataloguing '  method,  a 
somewhat  materialistic  way  of  taking  an  inven- 
tory of  the  holy  country  things;  but,  for  thpA 
very  reason,  contrasting  to  great  advantage  with 
Lucian's  hints  and  dreams  and  note  of  haunting. 
And  here  and  there  Mr.  Ritson  had  made  little 
alterations  in  the  style  of  the  passages  he  had 
conveyed,  and  most  of  these  alterations  were 
amendments,  as  Lucian  was  obliged  to  confess, 
though  he  would  have  liked  to  argue  one  or  two 
points  with  his  collaborator  and  corrector.  He 
lit  his  pipe  and  leant  back  comfortably  in  the 
hedge,  thinking  things  over,  weighing  very  coolly 
his  experience  of  humanity,  his  contact  with  the 
'  society '  of  the  countryside,  the  affair  of  The 
Chorus  in  Green,  and  even  some  little  incidents 
that  had  struck  him  as  he  was  walking  through 
the  streets  of  Caermaen  that  evening.  At  the 
58 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

post-office,  when  he  was  inquiring  for  his  parcel, 
he  had  heard  two  old  women  grumbling  in  the 
street ;  it  seemed,  so  far  as  he  could  make  out, 
that  both  had  been  disappointed  in  much  the 
same  way.  Each  had  applied  for  an  alms  at  the 
vicarage;  they  were  probably  shiftless  old  wretches 
who  had  liked  beer  for  supper  all  their  lives,  and 
had  forgotten  the  duties  of  economy  and  '  laying 
up  treasure  upon  earth.'  One  was  a  Roman 
Catholic,  hardened,  and  beyond  the  reach  of  con- 
version ;  she  had  been  advised  to  ask  alms  of  the 
priests,  '  who  are  always  creeping  and  crawling 
about.'  The  other  old  sinner  was  a  dissenter,  and, 
'  Mr.  Dixon  has  quite  enough  to  do  to  relieve 
good  Church  people.'  Mrs.  Dixon,  assisted  by 
Henrietta,  was,  it  seemed,  the  lady  high  almoner, 
who  dispensed  these  charities.  As  she  said  to 
Mrs.  Colley,  they  would  end  by  keeping  all  the 
beggars  in  the  county,  and  they  really  couldn't 
afford  it.  A  large  family  was  an  expensive  thing, 
and  the  girls  must  have  new  frocks.  '  Mr.  Dixon 
is  always  telling  me  and  the  girls  that  we  must 
not  demoralise  the  people  by  indiscriminate 
charity.'  Lucian  had  heard  of  these  sage  coun- 
sels, and  thought  of  them  as  he  listened  to  the 
bitter  complaints  of  the  gaunt,  hungry  old  women. 
59 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

In  the  back  street  by  which  he  passed  out  of  the 
town  he  saw  a  large  '  healthy '  boy  kicking  a  sick 
cat ;  the  poor  creature  had  just  strength  enough 
to  crawl  under  an  outhouse  door  ;  probably  to  die 
in  torments.  He  did  not  find  much  satisfaction  in 
thrashing  the  boy,  but  he  did  it  with  hearty  good 
will.  Further  on,  at  the  corner  where  the  turn- 
pike used  to  be,  was  a  big  notice,  announcing  a 
meeting  at  the  schoolroom  in  aid  of  the  missions 
to  the  Portuguese.  '  Under  the  Patronage  of  the 
Lord  Bishop  of  the  Diocese,'  was  the  imposing 
headline  ;  the  Reverend  Merivale  Dixon,  vicar  of 
Caermaen,  was  to  be  in  the  chair,  supported  by 
Stanley  Gervase,  Esq.,  J.P.,  and  by  many  of  the 
clergy  and  gentry  of  the  neighbourhood.  Senhor 
Diabo,  '  formerly  a  Romanist  priest,  now  an 
evangelist  in  Lisbon,'  would  address  the  meeting. 
'  Funds  are  urgently  needed  to  carry  on  this  good 
work,'  concluded  the  notice.  So  he  lay  well  back 
in  the  shade  of  the  hedge,  and  thought  whether 
some  sort  of  an  article  could  not  be  made  by 
vindicating  the  terrible  Yahoos  ;  one  might  point 
out  that  they  were  in  many  respects  a  simple  and 
unsophisticated  race,  whose  faults  were  the  result 
of  their  enslaved  position,  while  such  virtues  as 
they  had  were  all  their  own.  They  might  be 
60 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

compared,  he  thought,  much  to  their  advantage, 
with  more  complex  civilisations.  There  was  no 
hint  of  anything  like  the  Beit  system  of  publish- 
ing as  in  existence  amongst  them,  the  great 
Yahoo  nation  would  surely  never  feed  and  en- 
courage a  scabby  Houyhnhnm,  expelled  for  his 
foulness  from  the  horse-community,  and  the  witty 
dean,  in  all  his  minuteness,  had  said  nothing  of 
'safe'  Yahoos.  On  reflection,  however,  he  did 
not  feel  quite  secure  of  this  part  of  his  defence ; 
he  remembered  that  the  leading  brutes  had  fa- 
vourites, who  were  employed  in  certain  simple 
domestic  offices  about  their  masters,  and  it  seemed 
doubtful  whether  the  contemplated  vindication 
would  not  break  down  on  this  point.  He  smiled 
queerly  to  himself  as  he  thought  of  these  com- 
parisons, but  his  heart  burnt  with  a  dull  fury. 
Throwing  back  his  unhappy  memory,  he  recalled 
all  the  contempt  and  scorn  he  had  suffered  ;  as  a 
boy  he  had  heard  the  masters  murmuring  their 
disdain  of  him  and  of  his  desire  to  learn  other 
than  ordinary  school  work.  As  a  young  man  he 
had  suffered  the  insolence  of  these  wretched 
people  about  him  ;  their  cackling  laughter  at  his 
poverty  jarred  and  grated  in  his  ears,  he  saw  the 
acrid  grin  of  some  miserable  idiot  woman,  some 
fi 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

creature  beneath  the  swine  in  intelligence  and 
manners,  merciless,  as  he  went  by  with  his  eyes 
on  the  dust,  in  his  ragged  clothes.  He  and  his 
father  seemed  to  pass  down  an  avenue  of  jeers 
and  contempt,  and  contempt  from  such  animals 
as  these !  This  putrid  filth,  moulded  into  human 
shape,  made  only  to  fawn  on  the  rich  and  beslaver 
them,  thinking  no  foulness  too  foul  if  it  were  done 
in  honour  of  those  in  power  and  authority ;  and 
no  refined  cruelty  of  contempt  too  cruel  if  it  were 
contempt  of  the  poor  and  humble  and  oppressed ; 
it  was  to  this  obscene  and  ghastly  throng  that  he 
was  something  to  be  pointed  at.  And  these  men 
and  women  spoke  of  sacred  things,  and  knelt 
before  the  awful  altar  of  God,  before  the  altar  of 
tremendous  fire,  surrounded  as  they  professed  by 
Angels  and  Archangels  and  all  the  Company  of 
Heaven  ;  and  in  their  very  church  they  had  one 
aisle  for  the  rich  and  another  for  the  poor.  And 
the  species  was  not  peculiar  to  Caermaen ;  the 
rich  business  men  in  London  and  the  successful 
brother  author  were  probably  amusing  themselves 
at  the  expense  of  the  poor  struggling  creature 
they  had  injured  and  wounded ;  just  as  the 
'  healthy '  boy  had  burst  into  a  great  laugh  when 
the  miserable  sick  cat  cried  out  in  bitter  agony, 
62 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

and  trailed  its  limbs  slowly,  as  it  crept  away  to 
die.  Lucian  looked  into  his  own  life  and  his  own 
will ;  he  saw  that  in  spite  of  his  follies,  and  his 
want  of  success,  he  had  not  been  consciously 
malignant,  he  had  never  deliberately  aided  in 
oppression,  or  looked  on  it  with  enjoyment  and 
approval,  and  he  felt  that  when  he  lay  dead 
beneath  the  earth,  eaten  by  swarming  worms,  he 
would  be  in  a  purer  company  than  now,  when  he 
lived  amongst  human  creatures.  And  he  was  to 
call  this  loathsome  beast,  all  sting  and  filth, 
brother !  '  I  had  rather  call  the  devils  my 
brothers,'  he  said  in  his  heart,  '  I  would  fare 
better  in  hell.'  Blood  was  in  his  eyes,  and  as  he 
looked  up  the  sky  seemed  of  blood,  and  the  earth 
burnt  with  fire. 

The  sun  was  sinking  low  on  the  mountain 
when  he  set  out  on  the  way  again.  Burrows,  the 
doctor,  coming  home  in  his  trap,  met  him  a  little 
lower  on  the  road,  and  gave  him  a  friendly  good- 
night. 

'  A  long  way  round  on  this  road,  isn't  it  ? '  said 
the  doctor.  'As  you  have  come  so  far,  why  don't 
you  try  the  short  cut  across  the  fields  ?  You  will 
find  it  easily  enough ;  second  stile  on  the  left 
hand,  and  then  go  straight  ahead.' 
63 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

He  thanked  Dr.  Burrows  and  said  he  would 
try  the  short  cut,  and  Burrows  span  on  home- 
ward. He  was  a  gruff  and  honest  bachelor,  and 
often  felt  very  sorry  for  the  lad,  and  wished  he 
could  help  him.  As  he  drove  on,  it  suddenly 
occurred  to  him  that  Lucian  had  an  awful  look 
on  his  face,  and  he  was  sorry  he  had  not  asked 
him  to  jump  in,  and  come  to  supper.  A  hearty 
slice  of  beef,  with  strong  ale,  whisky  and  soda 
afterwards,  a  good  pipe,  and  certain  Rabelaisian 
tales  which  the  doctor  had  treasured  for  many 
years,  would  have  done  the  poor  fellow  a  lot  of 
good,  he  was  certain.  He  half  turned  round  on 
his  seat,  and  looked  to  see  if  Lucian  were  still  in 
sight,  but  he  had  passed  the  corner,  and  the 
doctor  drove  on,  shivering  a  little ;  the  mists 
were  beginning  to  rise  from  the  wet  banks  of  the 
river. 

Lucian  trailed  slowly  along  the  road,  keeping  a 
look  out  for  the  stile  the  doctor  had  mentioned. 
It  would  be  a  little  of  an  adventure,  he  thought, 
to  find  his  way  by  an  unknown  track ;  he  knew 
the  direction  in  which  his  home  lay,  and  he 
imagined  he  would  not  have  much  difficulty  in 
crossing  from  one  stile  to  another.  The  path  led 
him  up  a  steep  bare  field,  and  when  he  was  at  the 
64 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

top,  the  town  and  the  valley  winding  up  to  the 
north  stretched  before  him.  The  river  was  stilled 
at  the  flood,  and  the  yellow  water,  reflecting  the 
sunset,  glowed  in  its  deep  pools  like  dull  brass. 
These  burning  pools,  the  level  meadows  fringed 
with  shuddering  reeds,  the  long  dark  sweep  of 
the  forest  on  the  hill,  were  all  clear  and  distinct, 
yet  the  light  seemed  to  have  clothed  them  with  a 
new  garment,  even  as  voices  from  the  streets  of 
Caermaen  sounded  strangely,  mounting  up  thin 
with  the  smoke.  There  beneath  him  lay  the 
huddled  cluster  of  Caermaen,  the  ragged  and 
uneven  roofs  that  marked  the  winding  and  sordid 
streets,  here  and  there  a  pointed  gable  rising 
above  its  meaner  fellows ;  beyond  he  recognised 
the  piled  mounds  that  marked  the  circle  of  the 
amphitheatre,  and  the  dark  edge  of  trees  that 
grew  where  the  Roman  wall  whitened  and  waxed 
old  beneath  the  frosts  and  rains  of  eighteen 
hundred  years.  Thin  and  strange,  mingled  to- 
gether, the  voices  came  up  to  him  on  the  hill ; 
it  was  as  if  an  outland  race  inhabited  the  ruined 
city  and  talked  in  a  strange  language  of  strange 
and  terrible  things.  The  sun  had  slid  down  the 
sky,  and  hung  quivering/ over  the  huge  dark  dome 
of  the  mountain  like  a  burnt  sacrifice,  and  then 
F  65 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

suddenly  vanished.  In  the  afterglow  the  clouds 
began  to  writhe  and  turn  scarlet,  and  shone  so 
strangely  reflected  in  the  pools  of  the  snake-like 
river,  that  one  would  have  said  the  still  waters 
stirred,  the  fleeting  and  changing  of  the  clouds 
seeming  to  quicken  the  stream,  as  if  it  bubbled 
and  sent  up  gouts  of  blood.  But  already  about 
the  town  the  darkness  was  forming ;  fast,  fast  the 
shadows  crept  upon  it  from  the  forest,  and  from 
all  sides  banks  and  wreaths  of  curling  mist  were 
gathering,  as  if  a  ghostly  leaguer  were  being  built 
up  against  the  city,  and  the  strange  race  who 
lived  in  its  streets.  Suddenly  there  burst  out 
from  the  stillness  the  clear  and  piercing  music  of 
the  reveill^  calling,  recalling,  iterated,  reiterated, 
and  ending  with  one  long  high  fierce  shrill  note 
with  which  the  steep  hills  rang.  Perhaps  a  boy  in 
the  school  band  was  practising  on  his  bugle,  but 
for  Lucian  it  was  magic.  For  him  it  was  the 
note  of  the  Roman  trumpet,  tuba  mirum  spargens 
sonum,  filling  all  the  hollow  valley  with  its  com- 
mand, reverberated  in  dark  places  in  the  far 
forest,  and  resonant  in  the  old  graveyards  without 
the  walls.  In  his  imagination  he  saw  the  earthen 
gates  of  the  tombs  broken  open,  and  the  serried 
legion  swarming  to  the  eagles.  Century  by  cen- 
66 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

tury  they  passed  up ;  they  rose,  dripping,  from 
the  river  bed,  they  rose  from  the  level,  their 
armour  shone  in  the  quiet  orchard,  they  gathered 
in  ranks  and  companies  from  the  cemetery,  and 
as  the  trumpet  sounded,  the  hill  fort  above  the 
town  gave  up  its  dead.  By  hundreds  and  thou- 
sands the  ghostly  battle  surged  about  the  stan- 
dard, behind  the  quaking  mist,  ready  to  march 
against  the  mouldering  walls  they  had  built  so 
many  years  before. 

He  turned  sharply  ;  it  was  growing  very  dark, 
and  he  was  afraid  of  missing  his  way.  At  first  the 
path  led  him  by  the  verge  of  a  wood ;  there  was 
a  noise  of  rustling  and  murmuring  from  the  trees 
as  if  they  were  taking  evil  counsel  together.  A 
high  hedge  shut  out  the  sight  of  the  darkening 
valley,  and  he  stumbled  on  mechanically,  without 
taking  much  note  of  the  turnings  of  the  track, 
and  when  he  came  out  from  the  wood  shadow  to 
the  open  country,  he  stood  for  a  moment  quite 
bewildered  and  uncertain.  A  dark  wild  twilight 
country  lay  before  him,  confused  dim  shapes  of 
trees  near  at  hand,  and  a  hollow  below  his  feet, 
and  the  further  hills  and  woods  were  dimmer,  and 
all  the  air  was  very  still.  He  gazed  about  him, 
scanning  the  dusky  earth,  and  trying  to  make  out 
67 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

some  familiar  shape,  some  well-known  form  of  hill 
or  wood.  Suddenly  the  darkness  about  him 
glowed  ;  a  furnace  fire  had  shot  up  on  the  moun- 
tain, and  for  a  moment  the  little  world  of  the 
woodside  and  the  steep  hill  shone  in  a  pale  light, 
and  he  thought  he  saw  his  path  beaten  out  in  the 
turf  before  him.  The  great  flame  sank  down  to 
a  red  glint  of  fire,  and  it  led  him  on  down  the 
ragged  slope,  his  feet  striking  against  ridges  of 
ground,  and  falling  from  beneath  him  at  a  sudden 
dip.  The  bramble  bushes  shot  out  long  prickly 
vines,  amongst  which  he  was  entangled,  and  lower, 
he  was  held  back  by  wet  bubbling  earth.  He 
had  descended  into  a  dark  and  shady  valley,  beset 
and  tapestried  with  gloomy  thickets ;  the  weird 
wood  noises  were  the  only  sounds,  strange,  un- 
utterable mutterings,  dismal,  inarticulate.  He 
pushed  on  in  what  he  hoped  was  the  right  direc- 
tion, stumbling  from  stile  to  gate,  peering  through 
mist  and  shadow,  and  still  vainly  seeking  for  any 
known  landmark.  Presently  another  sound  broke 
upon  the  grim  air,  the  murmur  of  water  poured 
over  stones,  gurgling  against  the  old  misshapen 
roots  of  trees,  and  running  clear  in  a  deep  channel. 
He  passed  into  the  chill  breath  of  the  brook,  and 
almost  fancied  he  heard  two  voices  speaking  in 
68 


THE   HILL  OF   DREAMS 

its  murmur ;  there  seemed  a  ceaseless  utterance 
of  words,  an  endless  argument.  With  a  mood  of 
horror  pressing  on  him,  he  listened  to  the  noise 
of  waters,  and  the  wild  fancy  seized  him  that  he 
was  not  deceived,  that  two  unknown  beings  stood 
together  there  in  the  darkness  and  tried  the 
balances  of  his  life,  and  spoke  his  doom.  The 
hour  in  the  matted  thicket  rushed  over  the  great 
bridge  of  years  to  his  thought ;  he  had  sinned 
against  the  earth,  and  the  earth  trembled  and 
shook  for  vengeance.  He  stayed  still  for  a 
moment,  quivering  with  fear,  and  at  last  went  on 
blindly,  no  longer  caring  for  the  path,  if  only  he 
might  escape  from  the  toils  of  that  dismal  shud- 
dering hollow.  As  he  plunged  through  the 
hedges  the  bristling  thorns  tore  his  face  and 
hands ;  he  fell  amongst  stinging-nettles  and  was 
pricked  as  he  beat  out  his  way  amidst  the  gorse. 
He  raced  headlong,  his  head  over  his  shoulder, 
through  a  windy  wood,  bare  of  undergrowth ; 
there  lay  about  the  ground  mouldering  stumps, 
the  relics  of  trees  that  had  thundered  to  their  fall, 
crashing  and  tearing  to  earth,  long  ago ;  and  from 
these  remains  there  flowed  out  a  pale  thin 
radiance,  filling  the  spaces  of  the  sounding  wood 
with  a  dream  of  light.  He  had  lost  all  count  of 
69 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

the  track  ;  he  felt  he  had  fled  for  hours,  climbing 
and  descending,  and  yet  not  advancing  ;  it  was  as 
if  he  stood  still  and  the  shadows  of  the  land  went 
by,  in  a  vision.  But  at  last  a  hedge,  high  and 
straggling,  rose  before  him,  and  as  he  broke 
through  it,  his  feet  slipped,  and  he  fell  headlong 
down  a  steep  bank  into  a  lane.  He  lay  still,  half- 
stunned,  for  a  moment,  and  then  rising  unsteadily, 
he  looked  desperately  into  the  darkness  before 
him,  uncertain  and  bewildered.  In  front  it  was 
black  as  a  midnight  cellar,  and  he  turned  about, 
and  saw  a  glint  in  the  distance,  as  if  a  candle 
were  flickering  in  a  farm-house  window.  He 
began  to  walk  with  trembling  feet  towards  the 
light,  when  suddenly  something  pale  started  out 
from  the  shadows  before  him,  and  seemed  to 
swim  and  float  down  the  air.  He  was  going 
down  hill,  and  he  hastened  onwards,  and  he 
could  see  the  bars  of  a  stile  framed  dimly  against 
the  sky,  and  the  figure  still  advanced  with  that 
gliding  motion.  Then,  as  the  road  declined  to 
the  valley,  the  landmark  he  had  been  seeking 
appeared.  To  his  right  there  surged  up  in  the 
darkness  the  darker  summit  of  the  Roman  fort, 
and  the  streaming  fire  of  the  great  full  moon 
glowed  through  the  bars  of  the  wizard  oaks,  and 
70 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

made  a  halo  shine  about  the  hill.  He  was  now 
quite  close  to  the  white  appearance,  and  saw  that 
it  was  only  a  woman  walking  swiftly  down  the 
lane ;  the  floating  movement  was  an  effect  due  to 
the  sombre  air  and  the  moon's  glamour.  At  the 
gate,  where  he  had  spent  so  many  hours  gazing  at 
the  fort,  they  walked  foot  to  foot,  and  he  saw  it 
was  Annie  Morgan. 

'Good  evening,  Master  Lucian,'  said  the  girl, 
'  it's  very  dark,  sir,  indeed.' 

1  Good  evening,  Annie,'  he  answered,  calling 
her  by  her  name  for  the  first  time,  and  he  saw 
that  she  smiled  with  pleasure.  '  You  are  out  late, 
aren't  you  ? ' 

'  Yes,  sir ;  but  I've  been  taking  a  bit  of  supper 
to  old  Mrs.  Gibbon.  She's  been  very  poorly  the 
last  few  days,  and  there's  nobody  to  do  anything 
for  her.' 

Then  there  were  really  people  who  helped  one 
another  ;  kindness  and  pity  were  not  mere  myths, 
fictions  of '  society,'  as  useful  as  Doe  and  Roe,  and 
as  non-existent.  The  thought  struck  Lucian  with 
a  shock ;  the  evening's  passion  and  delirium, 
the  wild  walk  and  physical  fatigue  had  almost 
shattered  him  in  body  and  mind.  He  was 
'degenerate/  decadent,  and  the  rough  rains  and 

7* 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

blustering  winds  of  life,  which  a  stronger  man 
would  have  laughed  at  and  enjoyed,  were  to  him 
'  hail-storms  and  fire-showers.'  After  all,  Messrs. 
Beit,  the  publishers,  were  only  sharp  men  of 
business,  and  these  terrible  Dixons  and  Gervases 
and  Colleys  merely  the  ordinary  limited  clergy 
and  gentry  of  a  quiet  country  town ;  sturdier  sense 
would  have  dismissed  Dixon  as  an  old  humbug, 
Stanley  Gervase,  Esquire,  J.P.,  as  a  'bit  of  a 
bounder,'  and  the  ladies  as  '  rather  a  shoddy 
lot.'  But  he  was  walking  slowly  now,  in  pain- 
ful silence,  his  heavy,  lagging  feet  striking 
against  the  loose  stones.  He  was  not  thinking 
of  the  girl  beside  him ;  only  something  seemed 
to  swell  and  grow  and  swell  within  his  heart ;  it 
was  all  the  torture  of  his  days,  weary  hopes  and 
weary  disappointment,  scorn  rankling  and  throb- 
bing, and  the  thought '  I  had  rather  call  the  devils 
my  brothers  and  live  with  them  in  hell.'  He 
choked  and  gasped  for  breath,  and  felt  involun- 
tary muscles  working  in  his  face,  and  the  im- 
pulses of  a  madman  stirring  him  ;  he  himself  was 
in  truth  the  realisation  of  the  vision  of  Caermaen 
that  night,  a  city  with  mouldering  walls  beset  by 
the  ghostly  legion.  Life  and  the  world  and  the 
laws  of  the  sunlight  had  passed  away,  and  the 
72 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

resurrection  and  kingdom  of  the  dead  began. 
The  Celt  assailed  him,  beckoning  from  the  weird 
wood  he  called  the  world,  and  his  far-off  ancestors, 
the '  little  people '  crept  out  of  their  caves,  mutter- 
ing charms  and  incantations  in  hissing  inhuman 
speech  ;  he  was  beleaguered  by  desires  that  had 
slept  in  his  race  for  ages. 

'  I  am  afraid  you  are  very  tired,  Master  Lucian. 
Would  you  like  me  to  give  you  my  hand  over  this 
rough  bit  ? ' 

He  had  stumbled  against  a  great  round  stone 
and  had  nearly  fallen.  The  woman's  hand  sought 
his  in  the  darkness,  as  he  felt  the  touch  of  the 
soft  warm  flesh,  he  moaned,  and  a  pang  shot 
through  his  arm  to  his  heart.  He  looked  up  and 
found  he  had  only  walked  a  few  paces  since  Annie 
had  spoken  ;  he  had  thought  they  had  wandered 
for  hours  together.  The  moon  was  just  mount- 
ing above  the  oaks,  and  the  halo  round  the  dark 
hill  brightened.  He  stopped  short,  and  keeping 
his  hold  of  Annie's  hand,  looked  into  her  face. 
A  hazy  glory  of  moonlight  shone  around  them 
and  lit  up  their  eyes.  He  had  not  greatly  altered 
since  his  boyhood ;  his  face  was  pale  olive  in 
colour,  thin  and  oval ;  marks  of  pain  had  gathered 
about  the  eyes,  and  his  black  hair  was  already 

73 


THE   HILL  OF   DREAMS 

stricken  with  grey.  But  the  eager,  curious  gaze 
still  remained,  and  what  he  saw  before  him  lit  up 
his  sadness  with  a  new  fire.  She  stopped  too,  and 
did  not  offer  to  draw  away,  but  looked  back  with 
all  her  heart.  They  were  alike  in  many  ways  ; 
her  skin  was  also  of  that  olive  colour,  but  her  face 
was  sweet  as  a  beautiful  summer  night,  and  her 
black  eyes  showed  no  dimness,  and  the  smile  on 
the  scarlet  lips  was  like  a  flame  when  it  brightens 
a  dark  and  lonely  land. 

'  You  are  sorely  tired,  Master  Lucian,  let  us  sit 
down  here  by  the  gate.' 

It  was  Lucian  who  spoke  next :  '  My  dear,  my 
dear.'  And  their  lips  were  together  again,  and 
their  arms  locked  together,  each  holding  the 
other  fast.  And  then  the  poor  lad  let  his  head 
sink  down  on  his  sweetheart's  breast,  and  burst 
into  a  passion  of  weeping.  The  tears  streamed 
down  his  face,  and  he  shook  with  sobbing,  in  the 
happiest  moment  that  he  had  ever  lived.  The 
woman  bent  over  him  and  tried  to  comfort  him, 
but  his  tears  were  his  consolation  and  his  triumph. 
Annie  was  whispering  to  him,  her  hand  laid  on 
his  heart ;  she  was  whispering  beautiful,  wonderful 
words,  that  soothed  him  as  a  song.  He  did  not 
know  what  they  meant. 

74 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

'  Annie,  dear,  dear  Annie,  what  are  you  saying 
to  me  ?  I  have  never  heard  such  beautiful  words. 
Tell  me,  Annie,  what  do  they  mean  ? ' 

She  laughed,  and  said  it  was  only  nonsense  that 
the  nurses  sang  to  the  children. 

'  No,  no,  you  are  not  to  call  me  Master  Lucian 
any  more,'  he  said,  when  they  parted, '  you  must 
call  me  Lucian  ;  and  I,  I  worship  you,  my  dear 
Annie.' 

He  fell  down  before  her,  embracing  her  knees, 
and  adored,  and  she  allowed  him,  and  confirmed 
his  worship.  He  followed  slowly  after  her,  pass- 
ing the  path  which  led  to  her  home  with  a  longing 
glance.  Nobody  saw  any  difference  in  Lucian 
when  he  reached  the  rectory.  He  came  in  with 
his  usual  dreamy  indifference,  and  told  how  he 
had  lost  his  way  by  trying  the  short  cut.  He 
said  he  had  met  Dr.  Burrows  on  the  road,  and 
that  he  had  recommended  the  path  by  the  fields. 
Then,  as  dully  as  if  he  had  been  reading  some 
story  out  of  a  newspaper,  he  gave  his  father  the 
outlines  of  the  Beit  case,  producing  the  pretty 
little  book  called  The  Chorus  in  Green.  The 
parson  listened  in  amazement. 

'You  mean  to  tell  me  that^z*  wrote  this  book?' 
he  said.     He  was  quite  roused. 
75 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

'  No ;  not  all  of  it.  Look  ;  that  bit  is  mine, 
and  that ;  and  the  beginning  of  this  chapter. 
Nearly  the  whole  of  the  third  chapter  is  by 
me.' 

He  closed  the  book  without  interest,  and  indeed 
he  felt  astonished  at  his  father's  excitement.  The 
incident  seemed  to  him  unimportant. 

'And  you  say  that  eighty  or  ninety  pages  of 
this  book  are  yours,  and  these  scoundrels  have 
stolen  your  work  ? ' 

'Well,  I  suppose  they  have.  I'll  fetch  the 
manuscript,  if  you  would  like  to  look  at  it.' 

The  manuscript  was  duly  produced,  wrapped 
in  brown  paper,  with  Messrs.  Beit's  address  label 
on  it,  and  the  post-office  dated  stamps. 

c  And  the  other  book  has  been  out  a  month.' 
The  parson,  forgetting  the  sacerdotal  office,  and 
his  good  habit  of  grinning,  swore  at  Messrs.  Beit 
and  Mr.  Ritson,  calling  them  damned  thieves,  and 
then  began  to  read  the  manuscript,  and  to  com- 
pare it  with  the  printed  book. 

'  Why,  it's  splendid  work.  My  poor  fellow/  he 
said  after  a  while,  '  I  had  no  notion  you  could 
write  so  well.  I  used  to  think  of  such  things  in 
the  old  days  at  Oxford;  "old  Bill,"  the  tutor, 
used  to  praise  my  essays,  but  I  never  wrote  any- 
76 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

thing  like  this.  And  this  infernal  ruffian  of  a 
Ritson  has  taken  all  your  best  things  and  mixed 
them  up  with  his  own  rot  to  make  it  go  down. 
Of  course  you'll  expose  the  gang  ? ' 

Lucian  was  mildly  amused ;  he  couldn't  enter 
into  his  father's  feelings  at  all.  He  sat  smoking 
in  one  of  the  old  easy  chairs,  taking  the  rare 
relish  of  a  hot  grog  with  his  pipe,  and  gazing  out 
of  his  dreamy  eyes  at  the  violent  old  parson. 
He  was  pleased  that  his  father  liked  his  book, 
because  he  knew  him  to  be  a  deep  and  sober 
scholar  and  a  cool  judge  of  good  letters ;  but  he 
laughed  to  himself  when  he  saw  the  magic  of 
print.  The  parson  had  expressed  no  wish  to 
read  the  manuscript  when  it  came  back  in  dis- 
grace ;  he  had  merely  grinned,  said  something 
about  boomerangs,  and  quoted  Horace  with 
relish.  Whereas  now,  before  the  book  in  its 
neat  case,  lettered  with  another  man's  name, 
his  approbation  of  the  writing  and  his  dis- 
approval of  the  'scoundrels,'  as  he  called  them, 
were  loudly  expressed,  and  though  a  good 
smoker,  he  blew  and  puffed  vehemently  at  his 
pipe. 

"You'll  expose  the  rascals,  of  course,  won't 
you?'  he  said  again. 

77 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

'  Oh  no,  I  think  not.  It  really  doesn't  matter 
much,  does  it?  After  all,  there  are  some  very 
weak  things  in  the  book  ;  doesn't  it  strike  you  as 
"young?"  I  have  been  thinking  of  another  plan, 
but  I  haven't  done  much  with  it  lately.  But  I 
believe  I've  got  hold  of  a  really  good  idea  this 
time,  and  if  I  can  manage  to  see  the  heart  of  it  I 
hope  to  turn  out  a  manuscript  worth  stealing. 
But  it's  so  hard  to  get  at  the  core  of  an  idea — the 
heart,  as  I  call  it,'  he  went  on  after  a  pause.  '  It's 
like  having  a  box  you  can't  open,  though  you 
know  there's  something  wonderful  inside.  But  I 
do  believe  I've  a  fine  thing  in  my  hands,  and  I 
mean  to  try  my  best  to  work  it.' 

Lucian  talked  with  enthusiasm  now,  but  his 
father,  on  his  side,  could  not  share  these  ardours. 
It  was  his  part  to  be  astonished  at  excitement 
over  a  book  that  was  not  even  begun,  the  mere 
ghost  of  a  book  flitting  elusive  in  the  world  of 
unborn  masterpieces  and  failures.  He  had  loved 
good  letters,  but  he  shared  unconsciously  in  the 
general  belief  that  literary  attempt  is  always 
pitiful,  though  he  did  not  subscribe  to  the  other 
half  of  the  popular  faith — that  literary  success  is 
a  matter  of  very  little  importance.  He  thought 
well  of  books,  but  only  of  printed  books ;  in 
78 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

manuscripts  he  put  no  faith,  and  the  paulo-post- 
futurum  tense  he  could  not  in  any  manner  conju- 
gate. He  returned  once  more  to  the  topic  of 
palpable  interest. 

'  But  about  this  dirty  trick  these  fellows  have 
played  on  you.  You  won't  sit  down  quietly  and 
bear  it,  surely  ?  It's  only  a  question  of  writing  to 
the  papers.' 

'  They  wouldn't  put  the  letter  in.  And  if  they 
did,  I  should  only  get  laughed  at.  Some  time 
ago  a  man  wrote  to  the  Reader,  complaining  of 
his  play  being  stolen.  He  said  that  he  had  sent 
a  little  one-act  comedy  to  Burleigh,  the  great 
dramatist,  asking  for  his  advice.  Burleigh  gave 
his  advice  and  took  the  idea  for  his  own  very 
successful  play.  So  the  man  said,  and  I  daresay 
it  was  true  enough.  But  the  victim  got  nothing 
by  his  complaint.  "A  pretty  state  of  things," 
everybody  said.  "  Here's  a  Mr.  Tomson,  that  no 
one  has  ever  heard  of,  bothers  Burleigh  with  his 
rubbish,  and  then  accuses  him  of  petty  larceny. 
Is  it  likely  that  a  man  of  Burleigh's  position,  a 
playwright  who  can  make  his  five  thousand  a 
year  easily,  would  borrow  from  an  unknown 
Tomson  ?  "  I  should  think  it  very  likely,  indeed,' 
Lucian  went  on,  chuckling,  'but  that  was  the 
79 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

verdict.     No;    I   don't    think    I'll   write   to    the 
papers.' 

'  Well,  well,  my  boy,  I  suppose  you  know  your 
own  business  best.  I  think  you  are  mistaken,  but 
you  must  do  as  you  like.' 

'  It's  all  so  unimportant,'  said  Lucian,  and  he 
really  thought  so.  He  had  sweeter  things  to 
dream  of,  and  desired  no  communion  of  feeling 
with  that  madman  who  had  left  Caermaen  some 
few  hours  before.  He  felt  he  had  made  a  fool  of 
himself,  he  was  ashamed  to  think  of  the  fatuity  of 
which  he  had  been  guilty;  such  boiling  hatred 
was  not  only  wicked,  but  absurd.  A  man  could 
do  no  good  who  put  himself  into  a  position  of 
such  violent  antagonism  against  his  fellow-crea- 
tures ;  so  Lucian  rebuked  his  heart,  saying  that 
he  was  old  enough  to  know  better.  But  he  re- 
membered that  he  had  sweeter  things  to  dream 
of;  there  was  a  secret  ecstasy  that  he  treasured 
and  locked  tight  away,  as  a  joy  too  exquisite  even 
for  thought  till  he  was  quite  alone;  and  then 
there  was  that  scheme  for  a  new  book  that  he  had 
laid  down  hopelessly  some  time  ago;  it  seemed  to 
have  arisen  into  life  again  within  the  last  hour; 
he  understood  that  he  had  started  on  a  false  tack, 
he  had  taken  the  wrong  aspect  of  his  idea.  Of 
80 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

course  the  thing  couldn't  be  written  in  that  way  ; 
it  was  like  trying  to  read  a  page  turned  upside 
down  ;  and  he  saw  those  characters  he  had  vainly 
sought  suddenly  disambushed,  and  a  splendid 
inevitable  sequence  of  events  unrolled  before 
him. 

It  was  a  true  resurrection  ;  the  dry  plot  he  had 
constructed  revealed  itself  as  a  living  thing,  stir- 
ring and  mysterious,  and  warm  as  life  itself.  The 
parson  was  smoking  stolidly  to  all  appearance, 
but  in  reality  he  was  full  of  amazement  at  his 
own  son,  and  now  and  again  he  slipped  sly  furtive 
glances  towards  the  tranquil  young  man  in  the 
arm-chair  by  the  empty  hearth.  In  the  first 
place,  Mr.  Taylor  was  genuinely  impressed  by 
what  he  had  read  of  Lucian's  work ;  he  had  so 
long  been  accustomed  to  look  upon  all  effort  as 
futile,  that  success  amazed  him.  In  the  abstract, 
of  course,  he  was  prepared  to  admit  that  some 
people  did  write  well  and  got  published  and  made 
money,  just  as  other  persons  successfully  backed 
an  outsider  at  heavy  odds ;  but  it  had  seemed  as 
improbable  that  Lucian  should  show  even  the 
beginnings  of  achievement  in  one  direction  as  in 
the  other.  Then  the  boy  evidently  cared  so  little 
about  it ;  he  did  not  appear  to  be  proud  of  being 
G  81 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

worth  robbing,  nor  was  he  angry  with  the  rob- 
bers. 

He  sat  back  luxuriously  in  the  disreputable 
old  chair,  drawing  long  slow  wreaths  of  smoke, 
tasting  his  whisky  from  time  to  time,  and  evi- 
dently well  at  ease  with  himself.  The  father  saw 
him  smile,  and  it  suddenly  dawned  upon  him 
that  his  son  was  very  handsome  ;  he  had  such 
kind  gentle  eyes  and  a  kind  mouth,  and  his  pale 
cheeks  were  flushed  like  a  girl's.  Mr.  Taylor  felt 
moved.  What  a  harmless  young  fellow  Lucian 
had  been  ;  no  doubt  a  little  queer  and  different 
from  others,  but  wholly  inoffensive,  and  patient 
under  disappointment  and  Miss  Deacon.  Her 
contribution  to  the  evening's  discussion  had  been 
characteristic ;  she  had  remarked,  firstly,  that 
writing  was  a  very  unsettling  occupation,  and 
secondly,  that  it  was  extremely  foolish  to  entrust 
one's  property  to  people  of  whom  one  knew  noth- 
ing. Father  and  son  had  smiled  together  at  these 
observations,  which  were  probably  true  enough. 
Mr.  Taylor  at  last  left  Lucian  alone;  he  shook 
hands  with  a  good  deal  of  respect,  and  said, 
almost  deferentially : 

'You   mustn't   work   too  hard,  old  fellow.     I 
wouldn't  stay  up  too  late,  if  I  were  you,  after  that 
82 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

long  walk.  You  must  have  gone  miles  out  of 
your  way.' 

'  I'm  not  tired  now,  though.  I  feel  as  if  I  could 
write  my  new  book  on  the  spot ' ;  and  the  young 
man  laughed  a  gay  sweet  laugh  that  struck  the 
father  as  a  new  note  in  his  son's  life. 

He  sat  still  a  moment  after  his  father  had  left 
the  room.  He  cherished  his  chief  treasure  of 
thought  in  its  secret  place  ;  he  would  not  enjoy  it 
yet.  He  drew  up  a  chair  to  the  table  at  which  he 
wrote,  or  tried  to  write,  and  began  taking  pens 
and  paper  from  the  drawer.  There  was  a  great 
pile  of  ruled  paper  there ;  all  of  it  used,  on  one 
side,  and  signifying  many  hours  of  desperate 
scribbling,  of  heart-searching  and  rack  of  his 
brain  ;  an  array  of  poor,  eager  lines  written  by  a 
waning  fire  with  waning  hope;  all  useless  and 
abandoned.  He  took  up  the  sheets  cheerfully, 
and  began  in  delicious  idleness  to  look  over  these 
fruitless  efforts.  A  page  caught  his  attention ;  he 
remembered  how  he  wrote  it  while  a  November 
storm  was  dashing  against  the  panes ;  and  there 
was  another,  with  a  queer  blot  in  one  corner ;  he 
had  got  up  from  his  chair  and  looked  out,  and  all 
the  earth  was  white  fairyland,  and  the  snow- 
flakes  whirled  round  and  round  in  the  wind. 
83 


THE    HILL    OF   DREAMS 

Then  he  saw  the  chapter  begun  of  a  night  in 
March :  a  great  gale  blew  that  night  and  rooted 
up  one  of  the  ancient  yews  in  the  churchyard. 
He  had  heard  the  trees  shrieking  in  the  woods, 
and  the  long  wail  of  the  wind,  and  across  the 
heaven  a  white  moon  fled  awfully  before  the 
streaming  clouds.  And  all  these  poor  abandoned 
pages  now  seemed  sweet,  and  past  unhappiness 
was  transmuted  into  happiness,  and  the  nights  of 
toil  were  holy.  He  turned  over  half  a  dozen 
leaves  and  began  to  sketch  out  the  outlines  of  the 
new  book  on  the  unused  pages;  running  out  a 
skeleton  plan  on  one  page,  and  dotting  fancies, 
suggestions,  hints  on  others.  He  wrote  rapidly, 
overjoyed  to  find  that  loving  phrases  grew  under 
his  pen ;  a  particular  scene  he  had  imagined  filled 
him  with  desire;  he  gave  his  hand  free  course,  and 
saw  the  written  work  glowing ;  and  action  and  all 
the  heat  of  existence  quickened  and  beat  on  the 
wet  page.  Happy  fancies  took  shape  in  happier 
words,  and  when  at  last  he  leant  back  in  his  chair 
he  felt  the  stir  and  rush  of  the  story  as  if  it  had 
been  some  portion  of  his  own  life.  He  read  over 
what  he  had  done  with  a  renewed  pleasure  in  the 
nimble  and  flowing  workmanship,  and  as  he  put 
the  little  pile  of  manuscript  tenderly  in  the  drawer 
84 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

he  paused  to  enjoy  the  anticipation  of  to-morrow's 
labour. 

And  then but  the  rest  of  the  night  was 

given  to  tender  and  delicious  things,  and  when  he 
went  up  to  bed  a  scarlet  dawn  was  streaming 
from  the  east. 


Ill 


FOR  days  Lucian  lay  in  a  swoon  of  pleasure,  smil- 
ing when  he  was  addressed,  sauntering  happily 
in  the  sunlight,  hugging  recollection  warm  to  his 
heart.  Annie  had  told  him  that  she  was  going  on 
a  visit  to  her  married  sister,  and  said,  with  a  caress, 
that  he  must  be  patient.  He  protested  against 
her  absence,  but  she  fondled  him,  whispering  her 
charms  in  his  ear  till  he  gave  in,  and  then  they 
said  good-bye,  Lucian  adoring  on  his  knees. 
The  parting  was  as  strange  as  the  meeting,  and 
that  night  when  he  laid  his  work  aside,  and  let 
himself  sink  deep  into  the  joys  of  memory,  all 
the  encounter  seemed  as  wonderful  and  impos- 
sible as  magic. 

'And  you  really  don't  mean  to  do  anything 
about  those  rascals  ?  '  said  his  father. 

'  Rascals  ?  Which  rascals  ?  Oh,  you  mean 
Beit.  I  had  forgotten  all  about  it.  No ;  I  don't 
think  I  shall  trouble.  They're  not  worth  powder 
and  shot.' 

86 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

And  he  returned  to  his  dream,  pacing  slowly 
from  the  medlar  to  the  quince  and  back  again.  It 
seemed  trivial  to  be  interrupted  by  such  questions ; 
he  had  not  even  time  to  think  of  the  book  he  had 
recommenced  so  eagerly,  much  less  of  this  labour 
of  long  ago.  He  recollected  without  interest  that 
it  cost  him  many  pains,  that  it  was  pretty  good 
here  and  there,  and  that  it  had  been  stolen,  and 
it  seemed  that  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  said 
on  the  matter.  He  wished  to  think  of  the  dark- 
ness in  the  lane,  of  the  kind  voice  that  spoke  to 
him,  of  the  kind  hand  that  sought  his  own,  as  he 
stumbled  on  the  rough  way.  So  far,  it  was  won- 
derful. Since  he  had  left  school  and  lost  the 
company  of  the  worthy  barbarians  who  had  be- 
friended him  there,  he  had  almost  lost  the  sense 
of  kinship  with  humanity ;  he  had  come  to  dread 
the  human  form  as  men  dread  the  hood  of  the 
cobra.  To  Lucian  a  man  or  a  woman  meant 
something  that  stung,  that  spoke  words  that 
rankled,  and  poisoned  his  life  with  scorn.  At 
first  such  malignity  shocked  him :  he  would 
ponder  over  words  and  glances  and  wonder  if  he 
were  not  mistaken,  and  he  still  sought  now  and 
then  for  sympathy.  The  poor  boy  had  romantic 
ideas  about  women  ;  he  believed  they  were  merci- 
87 


THE   HILL  OF   DREAMS 

ful  and  pitiful,  very  kind  to  the  unlucky  and 
helpless.  Men  perhaps  had  to  be  different ;  after 
all,  the  duty  of  a  man  was  to  get  on  in  the  world, 
or,  in  plain  language,  to  make  money,  to  be  suc- 
cessful ;  to  cheat  rather  than  to  be  cheated,  but 
always  to  be  successful ;  and  he  could  understand 
that  one  who  fell  below  this  high  standard  must 
expect  to  be  severely  judged  by  his  fellows.  For 
example,  there  was  young  Bennett,  Miss  Spurry's 
nephew.  Lucian  had  met  him  once  or  twice 
when  he  was  spending  his  holidays  with  Miss 
Spurry,  and  the  two  young  fellows  had  compared 
literary  notes  together.  Bennett  showed  some 
beautiful  things  he  had  written,  over  which  Lucian 
had  grown  both  sad  and  enthusiastic.  It  was  such 
exquisite  magic  verse,  and  so  much  better  than 
anything  he  ever  hoped  to  write,  that  there  was 
a  touch  of  anguish  in  his  congratulations.  But 
when  Bennett,  after  many  vain  prayers  to  his 
aunt,  threw  up  a  safe  position  in  the  bank,  and 
betook  himself  to  a  London  garret,  Lucian  was 
not  surprised  at  the  general  verdict. 

Mr.  Dixon,  as  a  clergyman,  viewed  the  question 
from  a  high  standpoint  and  found  it  all  deplor- 
able, but  the  general  opinion  was  that  Bennett 
was  a  hopeless  young  lunatic.     Old  Mr.  Gervase 
88 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

went  purple  when  his  name  was  mentioned,  and 
the  young  Dixons  sneered  very  merrily  over  the 
adventure. 

'  I  always  thought  he  was  a  beastly  young  ass,' 
said  Edward  Dixon,  'but  I  didn't  think  he'd 
chuck  away  his  chances  like  that.  Said  he 
couldn't  stand  a  bank !  I  hope  he'll  be  able  to 
stand  bread  and  water.  That's  all  those  littery 
fellows  get,  I  believe,  except  Tennyson  and  Mark 
Twain  and  those  sort  of  people.' 

Lucian  of  course  sympathised  with  the  un- 
fortunate Bennett,  but  such  judgments  were  after 
all  only  natural.  The  young  man  might  have 
stayed  in  the  bank  and  succeeded  to  his  aunt's 
thousand  a  year,  and  everybody  would  have 
called  him  a  very  nice  young  fellow — 'clever, 
too.'  But  he  had  deliberately  chosen,  as  Edward 
Dixon  had  said,  to  chuck  his  chances  away  for 
the  sake  of  literature ;  piety  and  a  sense  of  the 
main  chance  had  alike  pointed  the  way  to  a 
delicate  course  of  wheedling,  to  a  little  harmless 
practising  on  Miss  Spurry's  infirmities,  to  frequent 
compliances  of  a  soothing  nature,  and  the  '  young 
ass '  had  been  blind  to  the  direction  of  one  and 
the  other.  It  seemed  almost  right  that  the  vicar 
should  moralise,  that  Edward  Dixon  should  sneer, 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

and  that  Mr.  Gervase  should  grow  purple  with 
contempt.  Men,  Lucian  thought,  were  like  judges, 
who  may  pity  the  criminal  in  their  hearts,  but  are 
forced  to  vindicate  the  outraged  majesty  of  the 
law  by  a  severe  sentence.  He  felt  the  same  con- 
siderations applied  to  his  own  case  ;  he  knew  that 
his  father  should  have  had  more  money,  that  his 
clothes  should  be  newer  and  of  a  better  cut,  that 
he  should  have  gone  to  the  university  and  made 
good  friends.  If  such  had  been  his  fortune  he 
could  have  looked  his  fellow-men  proudly  in  the 
face,  upright  and  unashamed.  Having  put  on  the 
whole  armour  of  a  first-rate  West  End  tailor,  with 
money  in  his  purse,  having  taken  anxious  thought 
for  the  morrow,  and  having  some  useful  friends 
and  good  prospects  ;  in  such  a  case  he  might 
have  held  his  head  high  in  a  gentlemanly  and 
Christian  community.  As  it  was  he  had  usually 
avoided  the  reproachful  glance  of  his  fellows, 
feeling  that  he  deserved  their  condemnation. 
But  he  had  cherished  for  a  long  time  his  romantic 
sentimentalities  about  women:  literary  conven- 
tions borrowed  from  the  minor  poets  and  pseudo- 
mediaevalists,  or  so  he  thought  afterwards.  But, 
fresh  from  school,  wearied  a  little  with  the  per- 
petual society  of  barbarian  though  worthy  boys, 
90 


THE   HILL  OF   DREAMS 

he  had  in  his  soul  a  charming  image  of  woman- 
hood, before  which  he  worshipped  with  mingled 
passion  and  devotion.  It  was  a  nude  figure, 
perhaps,  but  the  shining  arms  were  to  be  wound 
about  the  neck  of  a  vanquished  knight,  there  was 
rest  for  the  head  of  a  wounded  lover ;  the  hands 
were  stretched  forth  to  do  works  of  pity,  and  the 
smiling  lips  were  to  murmur  not  love  alone,  but 
consolation  in  defeat.  Here  was  the  refuge  for  a 
broken  heart ;  here  the  scorn  of  men  would  but 
make  tenderness  increase ;  here  was  all  pity  and 
all  charity  with  loving-kindness.  It  was  a  de- 
lightful picture,  conceived  in  the  '  come  rest  on 
this  bosom,'  and  'a  ministering  angel  thou' 
manner,  with  touches  of  allurement  that  made 
devotion  all  the  sweeter.  He  soon  found  that 
he  had  idealised  a  little;  in  the  affair  of  young 
Bennett,  while  the  men  were  contemptuous  the 
women  were  virulent.  He  had  been  rather  fond 
of  Agatha  Gervase,  and  she,  so  other  ladies  said, 
had  '  set  her  cap '  at  him.  Now,  when  he  rebelled, 
and  lost  the  goodwill  of  his  aunt,  dear  Miss 
Spurry,  Agatha  insulted  him  with  all  conceivable 
rapidity.  '  After  all,  Mr.  Bennett,'  she  said, '  you 
will  be  nothing  better  than  a  beggar ;  now  will 
you?  You  mustn't  think  me  cruel,  but  I  can't 


THE   HILL  OF   DREAMS 

help  speaking  the  truth.  Write  books!'  Her 
expression  filled  up  the  incomplete  sentence ; 
she  waggled  with  indignant  emotion.  These 
passages  came  to  Lucian's  ears,  and  indeed  the 
Gervases  boasted  of  '  how  well  poor  Agatha  had 
behaved.' 

'  Never  mind,  Gathy,'  old  Gervase  had  observed. 
'  If  the  impudent  young  puppy  comes  here  again 
we'll  see  what  Thomas  can  do  with  the  horse- 
whip.' 

'  Poor  dear  child,'  Mrs.  Gervase  added  in  telling 
the  tale,  '  and  she  was  so  fond  of  him  too.  But 
of  course  it  couldn't  go  on  after  his  shameful 
behaviour.' 

But  Lucian  was  troubled  ;  he  sought  vainly  for 
the  ideal  womanly,  the  tender  note  of  '  come  rest 
on  this  bosom.'  Ministering  angels,  he  felt  con- 
vinced, do  not  rub  red  pepper  and  sulphuric  acid 
into  the  wounds  of  suffering  mortals. 

Then  there  was  the  case  of  Mr.  Vaughan,  a 
squire  in  the  neighbourhood,  at  whose  board  all 
the  aristocracy  of  Caermaen  had  feasted  for  years. 
Mr.  Vaughan  had  a  first-rate  cook,  and  his  cellar 
was  rare,  and  he  was  never  so  happy  as  when  he 
shared  his  good  things  with  his  friends.  His 
mother  kept  his  house,  and  they  delighted  all  the 
92 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

girls  with  frequent  dances,  while  the  men  sighed 
over  the  amazing  champagne.  Investments  proved 
disastrous,  and  Mr.  Vaughan  had  to  sell  the 
grey  manor-house  by  the  river.  He  and  his 
mother  took  a  little  modern  stucco  villa  in  Caer- 
maen,  wishing  to  be  near  their  dear  friends.  But 
the  men  were  'very  sorry;  rough  on  you,  Vaughan. 
Always  thought  those  Patagonians  were  risky,  but 
you  wouldn't  hear  of  it.  Hope  we  shall  see  you 
before  very  long ;  you  and  Mrs.  Vaughan  must 
come  to  tea  some  day  after  Christmas.' 

'  Of  course  we  are  all  very  sorry  for  them,'  said 
Henrietta  Dixon.  '  No,  we  haven't  called  on 
Mrs.  Vaughan  yet.  They  have  no  regular 
servant,  you  know ;  only  a  woman  in  the  morn- 
ing. I  hear  old  mother  Vaughan,  as  Edward  will 
call  her,  does  nearly  everything.  And  their  house 
is  absurdly  small ;  it's  little  more  than  a  cottage. 
One  really  can't  call  it  a  gentleman's  house.' 

Then  Mr.  Vaughan,  his  heart  in  the  dust,  went 
to  the  Gervases  and  tried  to  borrow  five  pounds 
of  Mr.  Gervase.  He  had  to  be  ordered  out  of  the 
house,  and,  as  Edith  Gervase  said,  it  was  all  very 
painful ;  '  he  went  out  in  such  a  funny  way,'  she 
added,  'just  like  the  dog  when  he's  had  a  whip- 
ping. Of  course  it's  sad,  even  if  it  is  all  his  own 

93 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

fault,  as  everybody  says,  but  he  looked  so  ridicu- 
lous as  he  was  going  down  the  steps  that  I 
couldn't  help  laughing.'  Mr.  Vaughan  had  heard 
the  ringing,  youthful  laughter  as  he  crossed  the 
lawn. 

Young  girls  like  Henrietta  Dixon  and  Edith 
Gervase  naturally  viewed  the  Vaughans'  comical 
position  with  all  the  high  spirits  of  their  age,  but 
the  elder  ladies  could  not  look  at  matters  in  this 
frivolous  light. 

'  Hush,  dear,  hush,'  said  Mrs.  Gervase,  '  it's  all 
too  shocking  to  be  a  laughing  matter.  Don't  you 
agree  with  me,  Mrs.  Dixon  ?  The  sinful  extrava- 
gance that  went  on  at  Pentre  always  frightened 
me.  You  remember  that  ball  they  gave  last 
year?  Mr.  Gervase  assured  me  that  the  cham- 
pagne must  have  cost  at  least  a  hundred  and  fifty 
shillings  the  dozen.' 

'  It's  dreadful,  isn't  it,'  said  Mrs.  Dixon,  '  when 
one  thinks  of  how  many  poor  people  there  are 
who  would  be  thankful  for  a  crust  of  bread  ? ' 

'  Yes,  Mrs.  Dixon,'  Agatha  joined  in,  !  and  you 
know  how  absurdly  the  Vaughans  spoilt  the 
cottagers.  Oh,  it  was  really  wicked  ;  one  would 
think  Mr.  Vaughan  wished  to  make  them  above 
their  station.  Edith  and  I  went  for  a  walk  one  day 
94 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

nearly  as  far  as  Pentre,  and  we  begged  a  glass  of 
water  of  old  Mrs.  Jones  who  lives  in  that  pretty 
cottage  near  the  brook.  She  began  praising  the 
Vaughans  in  the  most  fulsome  manner,  and 
showed  us  some  flannel  things  they  had  given 
her  at  Christmas.  I  assure  you,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Dixon,  the  flannel  was  the  very  best  quality ;  no 
lady  could  wish  for  better.  It  couldn't  have  cost 
less  than  half-a-crown  a  yard.' 

'  I  know,  my  dear,  I  know.  Mr.  Dixon  always 
said  it  couldn't  last.  How  often  I  have  heard 
him  say  that  the  Vaughans  were  pauperising  all 
the  common  people  about  Pentre,  and  putting 
every  one  else  in  a  most  unpleasant  position. 
Even  from  a  worldly  point  of  view  it  was  very 
poor  taste  on  their  part.  So  different  from  the 
true  charity  that  Paul  speaks  of.' 

'  I  only  wish  they  had  given  away  nothing 
worse  than  flannel,'  said  Miss  Colley,  a  young 
lady  of  very  strict  views.  'But  I  assure  you 
there  was  a  perfect  orgy,  I  can  call  it  nothing 
else,  every  Christmas.  Great  joints  of  prime 
beef,  and  barrels  of  strong  beer,  and  snuff  and 
tobacco  distributed  wholesale ;  as  if  the  poor 
wanted  to  be  encouraged  in  their  disgusting 
habits.  It  was  really  impossible  to  go  through 
95 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

the  village  for  weeks  after ;  the  whole  place  was 
poisoned  with  the  fumes  of  horrid  tobacco  pipes.' 

'  Well,  we  see  how  that  sort  of  thing  ends/  said 
Mrs.  Dixon,  summing  up  judicially.  'We  had 
intended  to  call,  but  I  really  think  it  would  be 
impossible  after  what  Mrs.  Gervase  has  told  us. 
The  idea  of  Mr.  Vaughan  trying  to  sponge  on 
poor  Mr.  Gervase  in  that  shabby  way!  I  think 
meanness  of  that  kind  is  so  hateful.' 

It  was  the  practical  side  of  all  this  that  aston- 
ished Lucian.  He  saw  that  in  reality  there  was 
no  high-flown  quixotism  in  a  woman's  nature : 
the  smooth  arms,  made  he  had  thought  for 
caressing,  seemed  muscular ;  the  hands  meant 
for  the  doing  of  works  of  pity  in  his  system, 
appeared  dexterous  in  the  giving  of  '  stingers,'  as 
Barnes  might  say,  and  the  smiling  lips  could 
sneer  with  great  ease.  Nor  was  he  more  fortunate 
in  his  personal  experiences.  As  has  been  told, 
Mrs.  Dixon  spoke  of  him  in  connection  with 
'judgments,'  and  the  younger  ladies  did  not 
exactly  cultivate  his  acquaintance.  Theoretically 
they  'adored'  books  and  thought  poetry  'too 
sweet,'  but  in  practice  they  preferred  talking 
about  mares  and  fox-terriers  and  their  neigh- 
bours. 

96 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

They  were  nice  girls  enough,  very  like  other 
young  ladies  in  other  country  towns,  content 
with  the  teaching  of  their  parents,  reading  the 
Bible  every  morning  in  their  bedrooms,  and 
sitting  every  Sunday  in  church  amongst  the  well- 
dressed  'sheep'  on  the  right  hand.  It  was  not 
their  fault  if  they  failed  to  satisfy  the  ideal  of  an 
enthusiastic  dreamy  boy,  and  indeed,  they  would 
have  thought  his  feigned  woman  immodest, 
absurdly  sentimental,  a  fright  ('never  wears  stays, 
my  dear '),  and  horrid. 

At  first  he  was  a  good  deal  grieved  at  the  loss 
of  that  charming  tender  woman,  the  work  of  his 
brain.  When  the  Miss  Dixons  went  haughtily 
by  with  a  scornful  waggle,  when  the  Miss 
Gervases  passed  in  the  wagonette,  laughing  as 
the  mud  splashed  him,  the  poor  fellow  would 
look  up  with  a  face  of  grief  that  must  have  been 
very  comic;  'like  a  dying  duck,'  as  Edith  Gervase 
said.  Edith  was  really  very  pretty,  and  he  would 
have  liked  to  talk  to  her,  even  about  fox-ter- 
riers, if  she  would  have  listened.  One  afternoon 
at  the  Dixons'  he  really  forced  himself  upon  her, 
and  with  all  the  obtuseness  of  an  enthusiastic 
boy  tried  to  discuss  the  Lotus  Eaters  of  Tenny- 
son. It  was  too  absurd.  Captain  Kempton  was 
H  97 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

making  signals  to  Edith  all  the  time,  and  Lieu- 
tenant Gatwick  had  gone  off  in  disgust,  and  he 
had  promised  to  bring  her  a  puppy  '  by  Vick  out 
of  Wasp.'  At  last  the  poor  girl  could  bear  it  no 
longer : 

'  Yes,  it's  very  sweet,'  she  said  at  last.  '  When 
did  you  say  you  were  going  to  London,  Mr. 
Taylor  ? ' 

It  was  about  the  time  that  his  disappointment 
became  known  to  everybody,  and  the  shot  told. 
He  gave  her  a  piteous  look  and  slunk  off,  'just 
like  the  dog  when  he's  had  a  whipping,'  to  use 
Edith's  own  expression.  Two  or  three  lessons  of 
this  description  produced  their  due  effect ;  and 
when  he  saw  a  male  Dixon  or  Gervase  approach- 
ing him  he  bit  his  lip  and  summoned  up  his 
courage.  But  when  he  descried  a  '  ministering 
angel '  he  made  haste  and  hid  behind  a  hedge  or 
took  to  the  woods.  In  course  of  time  the  desire 
to  escape  became  an  instinct,  to  be  followed  as  a 
matter  of  course ;  in  the  same  way  he  avoided  the 
adders  on  the  mountain.  His  old  ideals  were 
almost  if  not  quite  forgotten;  he  knew  that  the 
female  of  the  bete  humaine,  like  the  adder,  would 
in  all  probability  sting,  and  he  therefore  shrank 
from  its  trail,  but  without  any  feeling  of  special 
98 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

resentment.  The  one  had  a  poisoned  tongue  as 
the  other  had  a  poisoned  fang,  and  it  was  well  to 
leave  them  both  alone.  Then  had  come  that 
sudden  fury  of  rage  against  all  humanity,  as  he 
went  out  of  Caermaen  carrying  the  book  that  had 
been  stolen  from  him  by  the  enterprising  Beit. 
He  shuddered  as  he  thought  of  how  nearly  he 
had  approached  the  verge  of  madness,  when  his 
eyes  rilled  with  blood  and  the  earth  seemed  to 
burn  with  fire.  He  remembered  how  he  had 
looked  up  to  the  horizon  and  the  sky  was  blotched 
with  scarlet;  and  the  earth  was  deep  red,  with 
red  woods  and  red  fields.  There  was  something 
of  horror  in  the  memory,  and  in  the  vision  of  that 
wild  night  walk  through  dim  country,  when  every 
shadow  seemed  a  symbol  of  some  terrible  im- 
pending doom.  The  murmur  of  the  brook,  the 
wind  shrilling  through  the  wood,  the  pale  light 
flowing  from  the  mouldered  trunks,  and  the  pic- 
ture of  his  own  figure  fleeing  and  fleeting  through 
the  shades ;  all  these  seemed  unhappy  things  that 
told  a  story  in  fatal  hieroglyphics.  And  then  the 
life  and  laws  of  the  sunlight  had  passed  away^ 
and  the  resurrection  and  kingdom  of  the  dead 
began.  Though  his  limbs  were  weary,  he  had 
felt  his  muscles  grow  strong  as  steel ;  a  woman, 
99 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

one  of  the  hated  race,  was  beside  him  in  the 
darkness,  and  the  wild  beast  woke  within  him, 
ravening  for  blood  and  brutal  lust ;  all  the  raging 
desires  of  the  dim  race  from  which  he  came 
assailed  his  heart.  The  ghosts  issued  out  from 
the  weird  wood  and  from  the  caves  in  the  hills, 
besieging  him,  as  he  had  imagined  the  spiritual 
legion  besieging  Caermaen,  beckoning  him  to  a 
hideous  battle  and  a  victory  that  he  had  never 
imagined  in  his  wildest  dreams.  And  then  out  of 
the  darkness  the  kind  voice  spoke  again,  and  the 
kind  hand  was  stretched  out  to  draw  him  up  from 
the  pit.  It  was  sweet  to  think  of  that  which  he  had 
found  at  last ;  the  boy's  picture  incarnate,  all  the 
passion  and  compassion  of  his  longing,  all  the 
pity  and  love  and  consolation.  She,  that  beauti- 
ful passionate  woman  offering  up  her  beauty  in 
sacrifice  to  him,  she  was  worthy  indeed  of  his 
worship.  He  remembered  how  his  tears  had 
fallen  upon  her  breast,  and  how  tenderly  she  had 
soothed  him,  whispering  those  wonderful  unknown 
words  that  sang  to  his  heart.  And  she  had  made 
herself  defenceless  before  him,  caressing  and 
fondling  the  body  that  had  been  so  despised. 
He  exulted  in  the  happy  thought  that  he  had 
knelt  down  on  the  ground  before  her,  and  had 
100 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

embraced  her  knees  and  worshipped.  The 
woman's  body  had  become  his  religion ;  he  lay 
awake  at  night  looking  into  the  darkness  with 
hungry  eyes,  wishing  for  a  miracle,  that  the 
appearance  of  the  so-desired  form  might  be 
shaped  before  him.  And  when  he  was  alone  in 
quiet  places  in  the  wood,  he  fell  down  again  on 
his  knees,  and  even  on  his  face,  stretching  out 
vain  hands  in  the  air,  as  if  they  would  feel  her 
flesh.  His  father  noticed  in  those  days  that  the 
inner  pocket  of  his  coat  was  stuffed  with  papers ; 
he  would  see  Lucian  walking  up  and  down  in  a 
secret  shady  place  at  the  bottom  of  the  orchard, 
reading  from  his  sheaf  of  manuscript,  replacing 
the  leaves,  and  again  drawing  them  out.  He 
would  walk  a  few  quick  steps,  and  pause  as  if 
enraptured,  gazing  in  the  air  as  if  he  looked 
through  the  shadows  of  the  world  into  some 
sphere  of  glory,  feigned  by  his  thought.  Mr. 
Taylor  was  almost  alarmed  at  the  sight ;  he  con- 
cluded of  course  that  Lucian  was  writing  a  book. 
In  the  first  place,  there  seemed  something  im- 
modest in  seeing  the  operation  performed  under 
one's  eyes ;  it  was  as  if  the  '  make-up '  of  a  beau- 
tiful actress  were  done  on  the  stage,  in  full  audi- 
ence ;  as  if  one  saw  the  rounded  calves  fixed  in 
101 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

position,  the  fleshings  drawn  on,  the  voluptuous 
outlines  of  the  figure  produced  by  means  purely 
mechanical,  blushes  mantling  from  the  paint-pot, 
and  the  golden  tresses  well  secured  by  the  wig- 
maker.  Books,  Mr.  Taylor  thought,  should  swim 
into  one's  ken  mysteriously ;  they  should  appear 
all  printed  and  bound,  without  apparent  genesis  ; 
just  as  children  are  suddenly  told  that  they  have 
a  little  sister,  found  by  mamma  in  the  garden. 
But  Lucian  was  not  only  engaged  in  composi- 
tion ;  he  was  plainly  rapturous,  enthusiastic ;  Mr. 
Taylor  saw  him  throw  up  his  hands,  and  bow  his 
head  with  strange  gesture.  The  parson  began  to 
fear  that  his  son  was  like  some  of  those  mad 
Frenchmen  of  whom  he  had  read,  young  fellows 
who  had  a  sort  of  fury  of  literature,  and  gave 
their  whole  lives  to  it,  spending  days  over  a  page, 
and  years  over  a  book,  pursuing  art  as  English- 
men pursue  money,  building  up  a  romance  as  if  it 
were  a  business.  Now  Mr.  Taylor  held  firmly  by 
the  'walking-stick'  theory;  he  believed  that  a 
man  of  letters  should  have  a  real  profession,  some 
solid  employment  in  life.  '  Get  something  to  do,' 
he  would  have  liked  to  say,  'and  then  you  can 
write  as  much  as  you  please.  Look  at  Scott, 
look  at  Dickens  and  Trollope.'  And  then  there 

102 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

was  the  social  point  of  view  ;  it  might  be  right,  or 
it  might  be  wrong,  but  there  could  be  no  doubt 
that  the  literary  man,  as  such,  was  not  thought 
much  of  in  English  society.  Mr.  Taylor  knew  his 
Thackeray,  and  he  remembered  that  old  Major 
Pendennis,  society  personified,  did  not  exactly 
boast  of  his  nephew's  occupation.  Even  War- 
rington  was  rather  ashamed  to  own  his  connec- 
tion with  journalism,  and  Pendennis  himself 
laughed  openly  at  his  novel-writing  as  an  agree- 
able way  of  making  money,  a  useful  appendage 
to  the  cultivation  of  dukes,  his  true  business  in 
life.  This  was  the  plain  English  view,  and  Mr. 
Taylor  was  no  doubt  right  enough  in  thinking  it 
good,  practical  common  sense.  Therefore  when 
he  saw  Lucian  loitering  and  sauntering,  musing 
amorously  over  his  manuscript,  exhibiting  mani- 
fest signs  of  that  fine  fury  which  Britons  have 
ever  found  absurd,  he  felt  grieved  at  heart,  and 
more  than  ever  sorry  that  he  had  not  been  able  to 
send  the  boy  to  Oxford. 

'  B.N.C.  would  have  knocked  all  this  nonsense 
out  of  him,'  he  thought.  '  He  would  have  taken 
a  double  First  like  my  poor  father  and  made 
something  of  a  figure  in  the  world.  However,  it 
can't  be  helped.'  The  poor  man  sighed,  and  lit 
103 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

his   pipe,   and   walked   in   another   part   of    the 
garden. 

But  he  was  mistaken  in  his  diagnosis  of  the 
symptoms.  The  book  that  Lucian  had  begun  lay 
unheeded  in  the  drawer ;  it  was  a  secret  work 
that  he  was  engaged  on,  and  the  manuscripts  that 
he  took  out  of  that  inner  pocket  never  left  him 
day  or  night.  He  slept  with  them  next  to  his 
heart,  and  he  would  kiss  them  when  he  was  quite 
alone,  and  pay  them  such  devotion  as  he  would 
have  paid  to  her  whom  they  symbolised.  He 
wrote  on  these  leaves  a  wonderful  ritual  of  praise 
and  devotion ;  it  was  the  liturgy  of  his  religion. 
Again  and  again  he  copied  and  recopied  this 
madness  of  a  lover ;  dallying  all  day  over  the 
choice  of  a  word,  searching  for  more  exquisite 
phrases.  No  common  words,  no  such  phrases  as 
he  might  use  in  a  tale  would  suffice ;  the  sentences 
of  worship  must  stir  and  be  quickened,  they  must 
glow  and  burn,  and  be  decked  out  as  with  rare  work 
of  jewellery.  Every  part  of  that  holy  and  beauti- 
ful body  must  be  adored  ;  he  sought  for  terms  of 
extravagant  praise,  he  bent  his  soul  and  mind  low 
before  her,  licking  the  dust  under  her  feet,  abased 
and  yet  rejoicing  as  a  Templar  before  the  image 
of  Baphomet.  He  exulted  more  especially  in  the 
104 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

knowledge  that  there  was  nothing  of  the  conven- 
tional or  common  in  his  ecstasy ;  he  was  not  the 
fervent,  adoring  lover  of  Tennyson's  poems,  who 
loves  with  passion  and  yet  with  a  proud  respect, 
with  the  love  always  of  a  gentleman  for  a  lady. 
Annie  was  not  a  lady  ;  the  Morgans  had  farmed 
their  land  for  hundreds  of  years  ;  they  were  what 
Mrs.  Gervase  and  Miss  Colley  and  the  rest  of 
them  called  common  people.  Tennyson's  noble 
gentlemen  thought  of  their  ladies  with  something 
of  reticence:  they  imagined  them  dressed  in  flow- 
ing and  courtly  robes,  walking  with  slow  dignity ; 
they  dreamed  of  them  as  always  stately,  the 
future  mistresses  of  their  houses,  mothers  of  their 
heirs.  Such  lovers  bowed,  but  not  too  low,  remem- 
bering their  own  honour,  before  those  who  were 
to  be  equal  companions  and  friends  as  well  as 
wives.  It  was  not  such  conceptions  as  these  that 
he  embodied  in  the  amazing  emblems  of  his 
ritual ;  he  was  not,  he  told  himself,  a  young 
officer, 'something  in  the  city,'  or  a  rising  barrister 
engaged  to  a  Miss  Dixon  or  a  Miss  Gervase.  He 
had  not  thought  of  looking  out  for  a  nice  little 
house  in  a  good  residential  suburb  where  they 
would  have  pleasant  society,  there  were  to  be  no 
consultations  about  wall-papers,  or  jocose  whispers 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

from  friends  as  to  the  necessity  of  having  a  room 
that  would  do  for  a  nursery.  No  glad  young 
thing  had  leant  on  his  arm  while  they  chose  the 
suite  in  white  enamel,  and  the  china  for  '  our  bed- 
room,' the  modest  salesman  doing  his  best  to 
spare  their  blushes.  When  Edith  Gervase 
married  she  would  get  mamma  to  look  out  for 
two  really  good  servants,  'as  we  must  begin 
quietly,'  and  mamma  would  make  sure  that  the 
drains  and  everything  were  right.  Then  her 
'girl  friends'  would  come  on  a  certain  solemn 
day  to  see  all  her  '  lovely  things.'  '  Two  dozen  of 
everything ! '  '  Look,  Ethel,  did  you  ever  see  such 
ducky  frills  ? '  '  And  that  insertion,  isn't  it  quite 
too  sweet  ? '  '  My  dear  Edith,  you  are  a  lucky  girl.' 
'  All  the  underlinen  specially  made  by  Madame 
Lulu  1 '  '  What  delicious  things ! '  'I  hope  he 
knows  what  a  prize  he  is  winning.'  '  Oh !  do 
look  at  those  lovely  ribbon-bows!'  '  You  darling, 
how  happy  you  must  be.'  '  Real  Valenciennes  ! ' 
Then  a  whisper  in  the  lady's  ear,  and  her  reply, 
'  Oh,  don't,  Nelly! '  So  they  would  chirp  over  their 
treasures,  as  in  Rabelais  they  chirped  over  their 
cups  :  and  everything  would  be  done  in  due  order 
till  the  wedding-day,  when  mamma,  who  had 
strained  her  sinews  and  the  commandments  to 
106 


THE    HILL   OF  DREAMS 

bring  the  match  about,  would  weep  and  look  indig- 
nantly at  the  unhappy  bridegroom.  '  I  hope  you'll  be 
kind  to  her,  Robert.'  Then  in  a  rapid  whisper  to 
the  bride :  '  Mind  you  insist  on  Wyman's  flush- 
ing the  drains  when  you  come  back  ;  servants  are 
so  careless  and  dirty  too.  Don't  let  him  go  about 
by  himself  in  Paris.  Men  are  so  queer;  one 
never  knows.  You  have  got  the  pills?'  And 
aloud,  after  these  secreta>  '  God  bless  you,  my 
dear ;  good-bye !  cluck,  cluck,  good-bye ! ' 

There  were  stranger  things  written  in  the 
manuscript  pages  that  Lucian  cherished,  sen- 
tences that  burnt  and  glowed  like  '  coals  of  fire 
which  hath  a  most  vehement  flame.'  There  were 
phrases  that  stung  and  tingled  as  he  wrote  them, 
and  sonorous  words  poured  out  in  ecstasy  and 
rapture,  as  in  some  of  the  old  litanies.  He 
hugged  the  thought  that  a  great  part  of  what  he 
had  invented  was  in  the  true  sense  of  the  word 
occult :  page  after  page  might  have  been  read 
aloud  to  the  uninitiated  without  betraying  the 
inner  meaning.  He  dreamed  night  and  day  over 
these  symbols,  he  copied  and  re-copied  the 
manuscript  nine  times  before  he  wrote  it  out 
fairly  in  a  little  book  which  he  made  himself  of  a 
skin  of  creamy  vellum.  In  his  mania  for  acquire- 
107 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

ments  that  should  be  entirely  useless  he  had 
gained  some  skill  in  illumination,  or  limning 
as  he  preferred  to  call  it,  always  choosing  the 
obscurer  word  as  the  obscurer  arts.  First  he  set 
himself  to  the  severe  practice  of  the  text ;  he 
spent  many  hours  and  days  of  toil  in  struggling 
to  fashion  the  serried  columns  of  black  letter, 
writing  and  re-writing  till  he  could  shape  the 
massive  character  with  firm  true  hand.  He  cut 
his  quills  with  the  patience  of  a  monk  in  the 
scriptorium,  shaving  and  altering  the  nib,  lighten- 
ing and  increasing  the  pressure  and  flexibility  of 
the  points,  till  the  pen  satisfied  him,  and  gave 
a  stroke  both  broad  and  even.  Then  he  made 
experiments  in  inks,  searching  for  some  medium 
that  would  rival  the  glossy  black  letter  of  the  old 
manuscripts ;  and  not  till  he  could  produce  a  fair 
page  of  text  did  he  turn  to  the  more  entrancing 
labour  of  the  capitals  and  borders  and  ornaments. 
He  mused  long  over  the  Lombardic  letters,  as 
glorious  in  their  way  as  a  cathedral,  and  trained 
his  hand  to  execute  the  bold  and  flowing  lines ; 
and  then  there  was  the  art  of  the  border,  blossom- 
ing in  fretted  splendour  all  about  the  page.  His 
cousin,  Miss  Deacon,  called  it  all  a  great  waste  of 
time,  and  his  father  thought  he  would  have  done 
108 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

much  better  in  trying  to  improve  his  ordinary 
handwriting,  which  was  both  ugly  and  illegible. 
Indeed,  there  seemed  but  a  poor  demand  for  the 
limner's  art.  He  sent  some  specimens  of  his  skill 
to  an  '  artistic  firm '  in  London ;  a  verse  of  the 
c  Maud,'  curiously  emblazoned,  and  a  Latin  hymn 
with  the  notes  pricked  on  a  red  stave.  The  firm 
wrote  civilly,  telling  him  that  his  work,  though 
good,  was  not  what  they  wanted,  and  enclosing 
an  illuminated  text  '  We  have  a  great  demand 
for  this  sort  of  thing,'  they  concluded, '  and  if  you 
care  to  attempt  something  in  this  style  we  should 
be  pleased  to  look  at  it.'  The  said  text  was 
'  Thou,  God,  seest  me.'  The  letter  was  of  a 
degraded  form,  bearing  much  the  same  relation 
to  the  true  character  as  a  '  churchwarden  gothic ' 
building  does  to  Canterbury  Cathedral ;  the 
colours  were  varied.  The  initial  was  pale  gold, 
the  //  pink,  the  o  black,  the  u  blue,  and  the  first 
letter  was  somehow  connected  with  a  bird's  nest 
containing  the  young  of  the  pigeon,  who  were 
waited  on  by  the  female  bird. 

'  What  a  pretty  text,'  said  Miss  Deacon.     '  I 
should  like  to  nail  it  up  in  my  room.     Why  don't 
you  try  to  do  something  like  that,  Lucian  ?     You 
might  make  something  by  it.' 
109 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

'  I  sent  them  these,'  said  Lucian,  '  but  they 
don't  like  them  much.' 

'  My  dear  boy !  I  should  think  not !  Like 
them !  What  were  you  thinking  of  to  draw 
those  queer  stiff  flowers  all  round  the  border? 
Roses  ?  They  don't  look  like  roses  at  all  events. 
Where  do  you  get  such  ideas  from  ? ' 

'  But  the  design  is  appropriate ;  look  at  the 
words.' 

'  My  dear  Lucian,  I  can't  read  the  words ;  it's 
such  a  queer  old-fashioned  writing.  Look  how 
plain  that  text  is ;  one  can  see  what  it's  about. 
And  this  other  one ;  I  can't  make  it  out  at  all.' 

'  It's  a  Latin  hymn.1 

'  A  Latin  hymn  ?  Is  it  a  Protestant  hymn  ?  I 
may  be  old-fashioned,  but  Hymns  Ancient  and 
Modern  is  quite  good  enough  for  me.  This  is 
the  music,  I  suppose?  But,  my  dear  boy,  there 
are  only  four  lines ;  and  who  ever  heard  of  notes 
shaped  like  that :  you  have  made  some  square 
and  some  diamond-shape  ?  Why  didn't  you  look 
in  your  poor  mother's  old  music  ?  It's  in  the 
ottoman  in  the  drawing-room.  I  could  have 
shown  you  how  to  make  the  notes ;  there  are 
crotchets,  you  know,  and  quavers.' 

Miss  Deacon  laid  down  the  illuminated  Urbs 
no 


THE    HILL   OF  DREAMS 

Beata  in   despair ;    she  felt  convinced  that  her 
cousin  was  '  next  door  to  an  idiot.' 

And  he  went  out  into  the  garden  and  raged 
behind  a  hedge.  He  broke  two  flower-pots  and 
hit  an  apple-tree  very  hard  with  his  stick,  and 
then,  feeling  more  calm,  wondered  what  was  the 
use  of  trying  to  do  anything.  He  would  not 
have  put  the  thought  into  words,  but  in  his  heart 
he  was  aggrieved  that  his  cousin  liked  the  pigeons 
and  the  text,  and  did  not  like  his  emblematical 
roses  and  the  Latin  hymn.  He  knew  he  had 
taken  great  pains  over  the  work,  and  that  it  was 
well  done,  and  being  still  a  young  man  he  ex- 
pected praise.  He  found  that  in  this  hard  world 
there  was  a  lack  of  appreciation ;  a  critical  spirit 
seemed  abroad.  If  he  could  have  been  scientific- 
ally observed  as  he  writhed  and  smarted  under 
the  strictures  of  '  the  old  fool,'  as  he  rudely  called 
his  cousin,  the  spectacle  would  have  been  ex- 
tremely diverting.  Little  boys  sometimes  enjoy 
a  very  similar  entertainment ;  either  with  their 
tiny  fingers  or  with  mamma's  nail  scissors  they 
gradually  deprive  a  fly  of  its  wings  and  legs. 
The  odd  gyrations  and  queer  thin  buzzings  of 
the  creature  as  it  spins  comically  round  and 
round  never  fail  to  provide  a  fund  of  harmless 
in 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

amusement.  Lucian,  indeed,  fancied  himself  a 
very  ill-used  individual ;  but  he  should  have 
tried  to  imitate  the  nervous  organisation  of  the 
flies,  which,  as  mamma  says,  '  can't  really  feel.' 

But  now,  as  he  prepared  the  vellum  leaves  he 
remembered  his  art  with  joy ;  he  had  not  laboured 
to  do  beautiful  work  in  vain.  He  read  over  his 
manuscript  once  more,  and  thought  of  the  de- 
signing of  the  pages.  He  made  sketches  on 
furtive  sheets  of  paper,  and  hunted  up  books  in 
his  father's  library  for  suggestions.  There  were 
books  about  architecture,  and  mediaeval  iron 
work,  and  brasses  which  contributed  hints  for 
ornament ;  and  not  content  with  mere  pictures 
he  sought  in  the  woods  and  hedges,  scanning  the 
strange  forms  of  trees,  and  the  poisonous  growth 
of  great  water-plants,  and  the  parasite  twining  of 
honeysuckle  and  briony.  In  one  of  these  rambles 
he  discovered  a  red  earth  which  he  made  into  a 
pigment,  and  he  found  in  the  unctuous  juice  of  a 
certain  fern  an  ingredient  which  he  thought  made 
his  black  ink  still  more  glossy.  His  book  was 
written  all  in  symbols,  and  in  the  same  spirit  of 
symbolism  he  decorated  it,  causing  wonderful 
foliage  to  creep  about  the  text,  and  showing  the 
blossom  of  certain  mystical  flowers,  with  emblems 

112 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

of  strange  creatures,  caught  and  bound  in  rose 
thickets.  All  was  dedicated  to  love  and  a  lover's 
madness,  and  there  were  songs  in  it  which  haunted 
him  with  their  lilt  and  refrain.  When  the  book 
was  finished  it  replaced  the  loose  leaves  as  his 
constant  companion  by  day  and  night.  Three 
times  a  day  he  repeated  his  ritual  to  himself, 
seeking  out  the  loneliest  places  in  the  woods,  or 
going  up  to  his  room  ;  and  from  the  fixed  intent- 
ness  and  rapture  of  his  gaze,  the  father  thought 
him  still  severely  employed  in  the  questionable 
process  of  composition.  At  night  he  contrived 
to  wake  for  his  strange  worship ;  and  he  had  a 
peculiar  ceremony  when  he  got  up  in  the  dark 
and  lit  his  candle.  From  a  steep  and  wild  hill- 
side, not  far  from  the  house,  he  had  cut  from  time 
to  time  five  large  boughs  of  spiked  and  prickly 
gorse.  He  had  brought  them  into  the  house,  one 
by  one,  and  had  hidden  them  in  the  big  box  that 
stood  beside  his  bed.  Often  he  woke  up  weeping 
and  murmuring  to  himself  the  words  of  one 
of  his  songs,  and  then  when  he  had  lit  the 
candle,  he  would  draw  out  the  gorse-boughs,  and 
place  them  on  the  floor,  and  taking  off  his  night- 
gown, gently  lay  himself  down  on  the  bed  of 
thorns  and  spines.  Lying  on  his  face,  with  the 
i  113 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

candle  and  the  book  before  him,  he  would  softly 
and  tenderly  repeat  the  praises  of  his  dear,  dear 
Annie,  and  as  he  turned  over  page  after  page,  and 
saw  the  raised  gold  of  the  majuscules  glow  and 
flame  in  the  candle-light,  he  pressed  the  thorns 
into  his  flesh.  At  such  moments  he  tasted  in  all 
its  acute  savour  the  joy  of  physical  pain ;  and 
after  two  or  three  experiences  of  such  delights 
he  altered  his  book,  making  a  curious  sign  in 
vermilion  on  the  margin  of  the  passages  where 
he  was  to  inflict  on  himself  this  sweet  torture. 
Never  did  he  fail  to  wake  at  the  appointed  hour, 
a  strong  effort  of  will  broke  through  all  the 
heaviness  of  sleep,  and  he  would  rise  up,  joyful 
though  weeping,  and  reverently  set  his  thorny 
bed  upon  the  floor,  offering  his  pain  with  his 
praise.  When  he  had  whispered  the  last  word, 
and  had  risen  from  the  ground,  his  body  would 
be  all  freckled  with  drops  of  blood ;  he  used  to 
view  the  marks  with  pride.  Here  and  there  a 
spine  would  be  left  deep  in  the  flesh,  and  he 
would  pull  these  out  roughly,  tearing  through 
the  skin.  On  some  nights  when  he  had  pressed 
with  more  fervour  on  the  thorns  his  thighs  would 
stream  with  blood,  red  beads  standing  out  on  the 
flesh,  and  trickling  down  to  his  feet.  He  had 
114 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

some  difficulty  in  washing  away  the  bloodstains 
so  as  not  to  leave  any  traces  to  attract  the  atten- 
tion of  the  servant ;  and  after  a  time  he  returned 
no  more  to  his  bed  when  his  duty  had  been  ac- 
complished. For  a  coverlet  he  had  a  dark  rug,  a 
good  deal  worn,  and  in  this  he  would  wrap  his 
naked  bleeding  body,  and  lie  down  on  the  hard 
floor,  well  content  to  add  an  aching  rest  to  the 
account  of  his  pleasures.  He  was  covered  with 
scars,  and  those  that  healed  during  the  day  were 
torn  open  afresh  at  night ;  the  pale  olive  skin  was 
red  with  the  angry  marks  of  blood,  and  the  grace- 
ful form  of  the  young  man  appeared  like  the 
body  of  a  tortured  martyr.  He  grew  thinner  and 
thinner  every  day,  for  he  ate  but  little ;  the  skin 
was  stretched  on  the  bones  of  his  face,  and  the 
black  eyes  burnt  in  dark  purple  hollows.  His 
relations  noticed  that  he  was  not  looking  well. 

'  Now,  Lucian,  it's  perfect  madness  of  you  to 
go  on  like  this,'  said  Miss  Deacon,  one  morning 
at  breakfast.  '  Look  how  your  hand  shakes ;  some 
people  would  say  that  you  had  been  taking 
brandy.  And  all  that  you  want  is  a  little  medi- 
cine, and  yet  you  won't  be  advised.  You  know 
it's  not  my  fault;  I  have  asked  you  to  try  Dr. 
,  Jelly's  Cooling  Powders  again  and  again.' 

"5 


THE   HILL   OF  DREAMS 

He  remembered  the  forcible  exhibition  of  the 
powders  when  he  was  a  boy,  and  felt  thankful 
that  those  days  were  over.  He  only  grinned  at 
his  cousin  and  swallowed  a  great  cup  of  strong 
tea  to  steady  his  nerves,  which  were  shaky 
enough.  Mrs.  Dixon  saw  him  one  day  in  Caer- 
maen  ;  it  was  very  hot,  and  he  had  been  walking 
rather  fast.  The  scars  on  his  body  burnt  and 
tingled,  and  he  tottered  as  he  raised  his  hat  to 
the  vicar's  wife.  She  decided  without  further  in- 
vestigation that  he  must  have  been  drinking  in 
public-houses. 

'  It  seems  a  mercy  that  poor  Mrs.  Taylor  was 
taken,'  she  said  to  her  husband.  '  She  has  certainly 
been  spared  a  great  deal.  That  wretched  young 
man  passed  me  this  afternoon ;  he  was  quite  in- 
toxicated.' 

'  How  very  sad,'  said  Mr.  Dixon.  '  A  little 
port,  my  dear  ? ' 

1  Thank  you,  Merivale,  I  will  have  another 
glass  of  sherry.  Dr.  Burrows  is  always  scolding 
me  and  saying  I  must  take  something  to  keep  up 
my  energy,  and  this  sherry  is  so  weak.' 

The  Dixons  were  not  teetotallers.  They  re- 
gretted it  deeply,  and  blamed  the  doctor,  who 
'insisted  on  some  stimulant.'  However,  there 
116 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

was  some  consolation  in  trying  to  convert  the 
parish  to  total  abstinence,  or,  as  they  curiously 
called  it,  temperance.  Old  women  were  warned 
of  the  sin  of  taking  a  glass  of  beer  for  supper ; 
aged  labourers  were  urged  to  try  Cork-ho,  the 
new  temperance  drink ;  an  uncouth  beverage, 
styled  coffee,  was  dispensed  at  the  reading-room. 
Mr.  Dixon  preached  an  eloquent  'temperance' 
sermon,  soon  after  the  above  conversation,  taking 
as  his  text :  Beware  of  the  leaven  of  the  Pharisees. 
In  his  discourse  he  showed  that  fermented  liquor 
and  leaven  had  much  in  common,  that  beer  was 
at  the  present  day  'put  away'  during  Passover 
by  the  strict  Jews ;  and  in  a  moving  peroration 
he  urged  his  dear  brethren,  '  and  more  especially 
those  amongst  us  who  are  poor  in  this  world's 
goods,'  to  beware  indeed  of  that  evil  leaven  which 
was  sapping  the  manhood  of  our  nation.  Mrs. 
Dixon  cried  after  church  : 

'  Oh,  Merivale,  what  a  beautiful  sermon  !  How 
earnest  you  were.  I  hope  it  will  do  good.' 

Mr.  Dixon  swallowed  his  port  with  great 
decorum,  but  his  wife  fuddled  herself  every  even- 
ing with  cheap  sherry.  She  was  quite  unaware 
of  the  fact,  and  sometimes  wondered  in  a  dim 
way  why  she  always  had  to  scold  the  children 
117 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

after  dinner.  And  so  strange  things  sometimes 
happened  in  the  nursery,  and  now  and  then  the 
children  looked  queerly  at  one  another  after  a 
red-faced  woman  had  gone  out,  panting. 

Lucian  knew  nothing  of  his  accuser's  trials, 
but  he  was  not  long  in  hearing  of  his  own  in- 
toxication. The  next  time  he  went  down  to 
Caermaen  he  was  hailed  by  the  doctor. 

'  Been  drinking  again  to-day  ? ' 

'  No,'  said  Lucian  in  a  puzzled  voice.  '  What 
do  you  mean  ? ' 

'  Oh,  well,  if  you  haven't,  that's  all  right,  as 
you'll  be  able  to  take  a  drop  with  me.  Come 
along  in  ? ' 

Over  the  whisky  and  pipes  Lucian  heard  of 
the  evil  rumours  affecting  his  character. 

'  Mrs.  Dixon  assured  me  you  were  staggering 
from  one  side  of  the  street  to  the  other.  You 
quite  frightened  her,  she  said.  Then  she  asked 
me  if  I  recommended  her  to  take  one  or  two 
ounces  of  spirit  at  bedtime  for  the  palpitation  ; 
and  of  course  I  told  her  two  would  be  better.  I 
have  my  living  to  make  here,  you  know.  And 
upon  my  word,  I  think  she  wants  it ;  she's  always 
gurgling  inside  like  a  waterworks.  I  wonder  how 
old  Dixon  can  stand  it.' 

ix8 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

'  I  like  "  ounces  of  spirit," '  said  Lucian.  '  That's 
taking  it  medicinally,  I  suppose.  I've  often  heard 
of  ladies  who  have  to  "  take  it  medicinally  " ;  and 
that's  how  it's  done  ? ' 

'  That's  it.  "  Dr.  Burrows  won't  listen  to  me  "  : 
"  I  tell  him  how  I  dislike  the  taste  of  spirits,  but 
he  says  they  are  absolutely  necessary  for  my  con- 
stitution": "  my  medical  man  insists  on  something 
at  bedtime  "  ;  that's  the  style.' 

Lucian  laughed  gently ;  all  these  people  had 
become  indifferent  to  him  ;  he  could  no  longer 
feel  savage  indignation  at  their  little  hypocrisies 
and  malignancies.  Their  voices  uttering  calumny, 
and  morality,  and  futility  had  become  like  the 
thin  shrill  angry  note  of  a  gnat  on  a  summer 
evening ;  he  had  his  own  thoughts  and  his  own 
life,  and  he  passed  on  without  heeding. 

'You  come  down  to  Caermaen  pretty  often, 
don't  you  ? '  said  the  doctor.  '  I've  seen  you  two 
or  three  times  in  the  last  fortnight' 

'  Yes,  I  enjoy  the  walk.' 

'Well,  look  me  up  whenever  you  like,  you 
know.  I  am  often  in  just  at  this  time,  and  a  chat 
with  a  human  being  isn't  bad,  now  and  then.  It's 
a  change  for  me  :  I'm  often  afraid  I  shall  lose  my 
patients.' 

119 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

The  doctor  had  the  weakness  of  these  terrible 
puns,  dragged  headlong  into  the  conversation. 
He  sometimes  exhibited  them  before  Mrs.  Ger- 
vase,  who  would  smile  in  a  faint  and  dignified 
manner,  and  say : 

'  Ah,  I  see.  Very  amusing  indeed.  We  had 
an  old  coachman  once  who  was  very  clever,  I 
believe,  at  that  sort  of  thing,  but  Mr.  Gervase  was 
obliged  to  send  him  away,  the  laughter  of  the 
other  domestics  was  so  very  boisterous.' 

Lucian  laughed,  not  boisterously,  but  good- 
humouredly,  at  the  doctor's  joke.  He  liked 
Burrows,  feeling  that  he  was  a  man  and  not  an 
automatic  gabbling  machine. 

'  You  look  a  little  pulled  down,'  said  the  doctor, 
when  Lucian  rose  to  go.  '  No,  you  don't  want 
any  medicine.  Plenty  of  beef  and  beer  will  do 
you  more  good  than  drugs.  I  daresay  it's  the  hot 
weather  that  has  thinned  you  a  bit.  Oh,  you'll 
be  all  right  again  in  a  month.' 

As  Lucian  strolled  out  of  the  town  on  his  way 
home,  he  passed  a  small  crowd  of  urchins  assem- 
bled at  the  corner  of  an  orchard.  They  were 
enjoying  themselves  immensely.  The  '  healthy ' 
boy,  the  same  whom  he  had  seen  some  weeks 
ago  operating  on  a  cat,  seemed  to  have  recognised 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

his  selfishness  in  keeping  his  amusements  to  him- 
self. He  had  found  a  poor  lost  puppy,  a  little 
creature  with  bright  pitiful  eyes,  almost  human 
in  their  fond  friendly  gaze.  It  was  not  a  well- 
bred  little  dog  ;  it  was  certainly  not  that  famous 
puppy  'by  Vick  out  of  Wasp';  it  had  rough  hair 
and  a  foolish  long  tail  which  it  wagged  beseech- 
ingly, at  once  deprecating  severity  and  asking 
kindness.  The  poor  animal  had  evidently  been 
used  to  gentle  treatment  :  it  would  look  up  in  a 
boy's  face,  and  give  a  leap,  fawning  on  him,  and 
then  bark  in  a  small  doubtful  voice,  and  cower  a 
moment  on  the  ground,  astonished  perhaps  at  the 
strangeness,  the  bustle  and  animation.  The  boys 
were  beside  themselves  with  eagerness  ;  there  was 
quite  a  babble  of  voices,  arguing,  discussing, 
suggesting.  Each  one  had  a  plan  of  his  own 
which  he  brought  before  the  leader,  a  stout  and 
sturdy  youth. 

'  Drown  him  !  What  be  you  thinkin'  of,  mun?' 
he  was  saying.  '  'Tain't  no  sport  at  all.  You  shut 
your  mouth,  gwaes.  Be  you  goin'  to  ask  your 
mother  for  the  boiling  water?  Iss,  Bob  Williams, 
I  do  know  all  that :  but  where  be  you  a-going  to 
get  the  fire  from?  Be  quiet,  mun,  can't  you? 
Thomas  Trevor,  be  this  dog  yourn  or  mine? 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

Now,  look  you,  if  you  don't  all  of  you  shut  your 
bloody  mouths,  I'll  take  the  dog  'ome  and  keep 
him.  There  now  ! ' 

He  was  a  born  leader  of  men.  A  singular 
depression  and  lowness  of  spirit  showed  itself  on 
the  boys'  faces.  They  recognised  that  the  threat 
might  very  possibly  be  executed,  and  their  coun- 
tenances were  at  once  composed  to  humble 
attention.  The  puppy  was  still  cowering  on  the 
ground  in  the  midst  of  them  :  one  or  two  tried  to 
relieve  the  tension  of  their  feelings  by  kicking  him 
in  the  belly  with  their  hobnail  boots.  It  cried 
out  with  the  pain  and  writhed  a  little,  but  the  poor 
little  beast  did  not  attempt  to  bite  or  even  snarl. 
It  looked  up  with  those  beseeching  friendly  eyes 
at  its  persecutors,  and  fawned  on  them  again,  and 
tried  to  wag  its  tail  and  be  merry,  pretending  to 
play  with  a  straw  on  the  road,  hoping  perhaps  to 
win  a  little  favour  in  that  way. 

The  leader  saw  the  moment  for  his  master- 
stroke. He  slowly  drew  a  piece  of  rope  from 
his  pocket. 

'  What  do  you  say  to  that,  mun  ?  Now,  Thomas 
Trevor !  We'll  hang  him  over  that  there  bough. 
Will  that  suit  you,  Bobby  Williams  ? ' 

There  was  a  great  shriek  of  approval  and  delight. 

122 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

All  was  again  bustle  and  animation.  '  I'll  tie  it 
round  his  neck  ?  '  '  Get  out,  mun,  you  don't  know 
how  it  be  done.'  '  Iss,  I  do,  Charley.'  '  Now,  let 
me,  gwaes,  now  do  let  me.'  '  You  be  sure  he  won't 
bite  ? '  '  He  bain't  mad,  be  he  ? '  '  Suppose  we 
were  to  tie  up  his  mouth  first  ? ' 

The  puppy  still  fawned  and  curried  favour,  and 
wagged  that  sorry  tail,  and  lay  down  crouching 
on  one  side  on  the  ground,  sad  and  sorry  in  his 
heart,  but  still  with  a  little  gleam  of  hope ;  for 
now  and  again  he  tried  to  play,  and  put  up  his 
face,  praying  with  those  fond  friendly  eyes.  And 
then  at  last  his  gambols  and  poor  efforts  for 
mercy  ceased,  and  he  lifted  up  his  wretched  voice 
in  one  long  dismal  whine  of  despair.  But  he 
licked  the  hand  of  the  boy  that  tied  the  noose. 

He  was  slowly  and  gently  swung  into  the  air  as 
Lucian  went  by  unheeded ;  he  struggled,  and  his 
legs  twisted  and  writhed.  The  '  healthy '  boy 
pulled  the  rope,  and  his  friends  danced  and 
shouted  with  glee.  As  Lucian  turned  the  corner, 
the  poor  dangling  body  was  swinging  to  and 
fro;  the  puppy  was  dying,  but  he  still  kicked  a 
little. 

Lucian  went  on  his  way  hastily,  and  shuddering 
with  disgust.  The  young  of  the  human  creature 
123 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

were  really  too  horrible  ;  they  defiled  the  earth, 
and  made  existence  unpleasant,  as  the  pulpy 
growth  of  a  noxious  and  obscene  fungus  spoils 
an  agreeable  walk.  The  sight  of  those  malignant 
little  animals  with  mouths  that  uttered  cruelty 
and  filth,  with  hands  dexterous  in  torture,  and 
feet  swift  to  run  all  evil  errands,  had  given  him 
a  shock  and  broken  up  the  world  of  strange 
thoughts  in  which  he  had  been  dwelling.  Yet 
it  was  no  good  being  angry  with  them  :  it  was 
their  nature  to  be  very  loathsome.  Only  he 
wished  they  would  go  about  their  hideous  amuse- 
ments in  their  own  back  gardens  where  nobody 
could  see  them  at  work ;  it  was  too  bad  that  he 
should  be  interrupted  and  offended  in  a  quiet 
country  road.  He  tried  to  put  the  incident  out 
of  his  mind,  as  if  the  whole  thing  had  been 
a  disagreeable  story,  and  the  visions  amongst 
which  he  wished  to  move  were  beginning  to  return, 
when  he  was  again  rudely  disturbed.  A  little 
girl,  a  pretty  child  of  eight  or  nine,  was  coming 
along  the  lane  to  meet  him.  She  was  crying 
bitterly  and  looking  to  left  and  right,  and  calling 
out  some  word  all  the  time. 

'  Jack,  Jack,  Jack  !     Little  Jackie  !     Jack  ! ' 
Then  she  burst  into  tears  afresh,  and   peered 
124 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

into  the  hedge,  and  tried  to  peep  through  a  gate 
into  a  field. 

'Jackie,  Jackie,  Jackie!' 

She  came  up  to  Lucian,  sobbing  as  if  her  heart 
would  break,  and  dropped  him  an  old-fashioned 
curtsy. 

'  Oh,  please  sir,  have  you  seen  my  little  Jackie?' 

'  What  do  you  mean  ? '  said  Lucian.  '  What  is 
it  you've  lost  ?  ' 

'  A  little  dog,  please  sir.  A  little  tarrier  dog 
with  white  hair.  Father  gave  me  him  a  month 
ago,  and  said  I  might  keep  him.  Someone  did 
leave  the  garden  gate  open  this  afternoon,  and  he 
must  'a  got  away,  sir,  and  I  was  so  fond  of  him, 
sir,  he  was  so  playful  and  loving,  and  I  be  afraid 
he  be  lost.' 

She  began  to  call  again,  without  waiting  for  an 
answer. 

'Jack,  Jack,  Jack!' 

'  I'm  afraid  some  boys  have  got  your  little  dog,' 
said  Lucian.  '  They've  killed  him.  You'd  better 
go  back  home.' 

He  went  on,  walking  as  fast  as  he  could,  in  his 
endeavour  to  get  beyond  the  noise  of  the  child's 
crying.  It  distressed  him,  and  he  wished  to  think 
of  other  things.  He  stamped  his  foot  angrily  on 

125 


THE   HILL   OF  DREAMS 

the  ground  as  he  recalled  the  annoyances  of  the 
afternoon,  and  longed  for  some  hermitage  on  the 
mountains,  far  above  the  stench  and  the  sound  of 
humanity. 

A  little  farther,  and  he  came  to  Croeswen, 
where  the  road  branched  off  to  right  and  left. 
There  was  a  triangular  plot  of  grass  between  the 
two  roads  ;  there  the  cross  had  once  stood,  '  the 
goodly  and  famous  roode'  of  the  old  local  chron- 
icle. The  words  echoed  in  Lucian's  ears  as  he 
went  by  on  the  right  hand.  'There  were  five 
steps  that  did  go  up  to  the  first  pace,  and  seven 
steps  to  the  second  pace,  all  of  clene  hewn  ashler. 
And  all  above  it  was  most  curiously  and  glori- 
ously wrought  with  thorowgh  carved  work :  in  the 
highest  place  was  the  Holy  Roode  with  Christ 
upon  the  Cross  having  Marie  on  the  one  syde 
and  John  on  the  other.  And  below  were  six 
splendent  and  glisteringe  archaungels  that  bore 
up  the  roode,  and  beneath  them  in  their  stories 
were  the  most  fair  and  noble  ymages  of  the  xij 
Apostles  and  of  divers  other  Saints  and  Martirs. 
And  in  the  lowest  storie  there  was  a  marvellous 
ymagerie  of  divers  Beasts,  such  as  oxen  and 
horses  and  swine,  and  little  dogs  and  peacocks, 
all  done  in  the  finest  and  most  curious  wise,  so 
126 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

that  they  all  seemed  as  if  they  were  caught  in  a 
Wood  of  Thorns,  the  which  is  their  torment  of 
this  life.  And  here  once  in  the  year  was  a  mar- 
vellous solemn  service,  when  the  parson  of  Caer- 
maen  came  out  with  the  singers  and  all  the 
people,  singing  the  psalm  Benedicite  omnia  opera 
as  they  passed  along  the  road  in  their  procession. 
And  when  they  stood  at  the  roode  the  priest  did 
there  his  service,  making  certain  prayers  for  the 
beasts,  and  then  he  went  up  to  the  first  pace  and 
preached  a  sermon  to  the  people,  shewing  them 
that  as  our  lord  Jhu  dyed  upon  the  Tree  of  his 
deare  mercy  for  us,  so  we  too  owe  mercy  to  the 
beasts  his  Creatures,  for  that  they  are  all  his  poor 
lieges  and  silly  servants.  And  that  like  as  the 
Holy  Aungells  do  their  suit  to  him  on  high,  and 
the  Blessed  xij  Apostles  and  the  Martirs,  and  all 
the  Blissful  Saints  served  him  aforetime  on  earth 
and  now  praise  him  in  heaven,  so  also  do  the 
beasts  serve  him,  though  they  be  in  torment  of 
life  and  below  men.  For  their  spirit  goeth  down- 
ward, as  Holy  Writ  teacheth  us.' 

It  was  a  quaint  old  record,  a  curious  relic  of 

what  the  modern  inhabitants  of  Caermaen  called 

the  Dark  Ages.     A  few  of  the  stones  that  had 

formed  the  base  of  the  cross  still  remained  in 

127 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

position,  grey  with  age,  blotched  with  black  lichen 
and  green  moss.  The  remainder  of  the  famous 
rood  had  been  used  to  mend  the  roads,  to  build 
pigsties  and  domestic  offices  ;  it  had  turned  Pro- 
testant, in  fact.  Indeed,  if  it  had  remained,  the 
parson  of  Caermaen  would  have  had  no  time  for 
the  service;  the  coffee-stall,  the  Portuguese  Mis- 
sions, the  Society  for  the  Conversion  of  the  Jews, 
and  important  social  duties  took  up  all  his  leisure. 
Besides,  he  thought  the  whole  ceremony  unscrip- 
tural. 

Lucian  passed  on  his  way  wondering  at  the 
strange  contrasts  of  the  Middle  Ages.  How  was 
it  that  people  who  could  devise  so  beautiful  a 
service  believed  in  witchcraft,  demoniacal  posses- 
sion and  obsession,  in  the  incubus  and  succubus, 
and  in  the  Sabbath  and  in  many  other  horrible 
absurdities  ?  It  seemed  astonishing  that  anybody 
could  even  pretend  to  credit  such  monstrous  tales, 
but  there  could  be  no  doubt  that  the  dread  of  old 
women  who  rode  on  broomsticks  and  liked  black 
cats  was  once  a  very  genuine  terror. 

A  cold  wind  blew  up  from  the  river  at  sunset, 

and  the  scars  on  his  body  began  to  burn  and 

tingle.     The  pain  recalled  his  ritual  to  him,  and 

he  began  to  recite  it  as  he  walked  along.     He  had 

128 


THE   HILL  OF   DREAMS 

cut  a  branch  of  thorn  from  the  hedge  and  placed 
it  next  to  his  skin,  pressing  the  spikes  into  the 
flesh  with  his  hand  till  the  warm  blood  ran  down. 
He  felt  it  was  an  exquisite  and  sweet  observance 
for  her  sake ;  and  then  he  thought  of  the  secret 
golden  palace  he  was  building  for  her,  the  rare 
and  wonderful  city  rising  in  his  imagination.  As 
the  solemn  night  began  to  close  about  the  earth, 
and  the  last  glimmer  of  the  sun  faded  from  the 
hills,  he  gave  himself  anew  to  the  woman,  his 
body  and  his  mind,  all  that  he  was,  and  all  that 
he  had. 


129 


IV 


IN  the  course  of  the  week  Lucian  again  visited 
Caermaen.  He  wished  to  view  the  amphitheatre 
more  precisely,  to  note  the  exact  position  of  the 
ancient  walls,  to  gaze  up  the  valley  from  certain 
points  within  the  town,  to  imprint  minutely  and 
clearly  on  his  mind  the  surge  of  the  hills  about 
the  city,  and  the  dark  tapestry  of  the  hanging 
woods.  And  he  lingered  in  the  museum  where 
the  relics  of  the  Roman  occupation  had  been 
stored ;  he  was  interested  in  the  fragments  of 
tessellated  floors,  in  the  glowing  gold  of  drinking 
cups,  the  curious  beads  of  fused  and  coloured 
glass,  the  carved  amber-work,  the  scent-flagons 
that  still  retained  the  memory  of  unctuous  odours, 
the  necklaces,  brooches,  hairpins  of  gold  and 
silver,  and  other  intimate  objects  which  had  once 
belonged  to  Roman  ladies.  One  of  the  glass 
flagons,  buried  in  damp  earth  for  many  hundred 
years,  had  gathered  in  its  dark  grave  all  the 
splendours  of  the  light,  and  now  shone  like  an 
130 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

opal  with  a  moonlight  glamour  and  gleams  of 
gold  and  pale  sunset  green,  and  imperial  purple. 
Then  there  were  the  wine  jars  of  red  earthenware, 
the  memorial  stones  from  graves,  and  the  heads 
of  broken  gods,  with  fragments  of  occult  things 
used  in  the  secret  rites  of  Mithras.  Lucian  read 
on  the  labels  where  all  these  objects  were  found  : 
in  the  churchyard,  beneath  the  turf  of  the  meadow, 
and  in  the  old  cemetery  near  the  forest ;  and 
whenever  it  was  possible  he  would  make  his 
way  to  the  spot  of  discovery,  and  imagine  the 
long  darkness  that  had  hidden  gold  and  stone  and 
amber.  All  these  investigations  were  necessary 
for  the  scheme  he  had  in  view,  so  he  became  for 
some  time  quite  a  familiar  figure  in  the  dusty 
deserted  streets  and  in  the  meadows  by  the  river. 
His  continual  visits  to  Caermaen  were  a  tortuous 
puzzle  to  the  inhabitants,  who  flew  to  their 
windows  at  the  sound  of  a  step  on  the  uneven 
pavements.  They  were  at  a  loss  in  their  con- 
jectures ;  his  motive  for  coming  down  three  times 
a  week  must  of  course  be  bad,  but  it  seemed  un- 
discoverable.  And  Lucian  on  his  side  was  at  first 
a  good  deal  put  out  by  occasional  encounters  with 
members  of  the  Gervase  or  Dixon  or  Colley  tribes; 
he  had  often  to  stop  and  exchange  a  few  conven- 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

tional  expressions,  and  such  meetings,  casual  as 
they  were,  annoyed  and  distracted  him.  He  was 
no  longer  infuriated  or  wounded  by  sneers  or  con- 
tempt or  by  the  cackling  laughter  of  the  young 
people  when  they  passed  him  on  the  road  (his  hat 
was  a  shocking  one  and  his  untidiness  terrible), 
but  such  incidents  were  unpleasant  just  as  the 
smell  of  a  drain  was  unpleasant,  and  threw  the 
strange  mechanism  of  his  thoughts  out  of  gear 
for  the  time.  Then  he  had  been  disgusted  by  the 
affair  of  the  boys  and  the  little  dog ;  the  loath- 
someness of  it  had  quite  broken  up  his  fancies. 
He  had  read  books  of  modern  occultism,  and 
remembered  some  of  the  experiments  described. 
The  adept,  it  was  alleged,  could  transfer  the  sense 
of  consciousness  from  the  brain  to  the  foot  or 
hand,  he  could  annihilate  the  world  around  him 
and  pass  into  another  sphere.  Lucian  wondered 
whether  he  could  not  perform  some  such  operation 
for  his  own  benefit.  Human  beings  were  con- 
stantly annoying  him  and  getting  in  his  way;  was 
it  not  possible  to  annihilate  the  race,  or  at  all 
events  to  reduce  them  to  wholly  insignificant 
forms  ?  A  certain  process  suggested  itself  to  his 
mind,  a  work  partly  mental  and  partly  physical, 
and  after  two  or  three  experiments  he  found  to 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

his  astonishment  and  delight  that  it  was  successful. 
Here,  he  thought,  he  had  disovered  one  of  the 
secrets  of  true  magic,  this  was  the  key  to  the 
symbolic  transmutations  of  the  eastern  tales. 
The  adept  could,  in  truth,  change  those  who  were 
obnoxious  to  him  into  harmless  and  unimportant 
shapes,  not  as  in  the  letter  of  the  old  stories,  by 
transforming  the  enemy,  but  by  transforming 
himself.  The  magician  puts  men  below  him  by 
going  up  higher,  as  one  looks  down  on  a  mountain 
city  from  a  loftier  crag.  The  stones  on  the  road 
and  such  petty  obstacles  do  not  trouble  the  wise 
man  on  the  great  journey,  and  so  Lucian  when 
obliged  to  stop  and  converse  with  his  fellow- 
creatures,  to  listen  to  their  poor  pretences  and 
inanities,  was  no  more  inconvenienced  than  when 
he  had  to  climb  an  awkward  stile  in  the  course  of 
a  walk.  As  for  the  more  unpleasant  manifesta- 
tions of  humanity :  after  all  they  no  longer  con- 
cerned him.  Men  intent  on  the  great  purpose 
did  not  suffer  the  current  of  their  thoughts  to  be 
broken  by  the  buzzing  of  a  fly  caught  in  a  spider's 
web,  so  why  should  he  be  perturbed  by  the  misery 
of  a  puppy  in  the  hands  of  village  boys  ?  The 
fly,  no  doubt,  endured  its  tortures  ;  lying  helpless 
and  bound  in  those  slimy  bands,  it  cried  out  in  its 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

thin  voice  when  the  claws  of  the  horrible  monster 
fastened  on  it ;  but  its  dying  agonies  had  never 
vexed  the  reverie  of  a  lover.  Lucian  saw  no 
reason  why  the  boys  should  offend  him  more  than 
the  spider,  or  why  he  should  pity  the  dog  more 
than  he  pitied  the  fly.  The  talk  of  the  men  and 
women  might  be  wearisome  and  inept  and  often 
malignant ;  but  he  could  not  imagine  an  alchemist 
at  the  moment  of  success,  a  general  in  the  hour 
of  victory,  or  a  financier  with  a  gigantic  scheme 
of  swindling  well  on  the  market  being  annoyed 
by  the  buzz  of  insects.  The  spider  is,  no  doubt, 
a  very  terrible  brute  with  a  hideous  mouth  and 
hairy  tiger-like  claws  when  seen  through  the 
microscope ;  but  Lucian  had  taken  away  the 
microscope  from  his  eyes.  He  could  now  walk 
the  streets  of  Caermaen  confident  and  secure,  with- 
out any  dread  of  interruption,  for  at  a  moment's 
notice  the  transformation  could  be  effected.  Once 
Dr.  Burrows  caught  him  and  made  him  promise 
to  attend  a  bazaar  that  was  to  be  held  in  aid  of 
the  Hungarian  Protestants ;  Lucian  assented  the 
more  willingly  as  he  wished  to  pay  a  visit  to  certain 
curious  mounds  on  a  hill  a  little  way  out  of  the 
town,  and  he  calculated  on  slinking  off  from  the 
bazaar  early  in  the  afternoon.  Lord  Beamys  was 

'34 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

visiting  Sir  Vivian  Ponsonby,  a  local  magnate,  and 
had  kindly  promised  to  drive  over  and  declare  the 
bazaar  open.  It  was  a  solemn  moment  when  the 
carriage  drew  up  and  the  great  man  alighted.  He 
was  rather  an  evil-looking  old  nobleman,  but  the 
clergy  and  gentry,  their  wives  and  sons  and 
daughters  welcomed  him  with  a  great  and  unctuous 
joy.  Conversations  were  broken  off  in  mid- 
sentence,  slow  people  gaped,  not  realising  why 
their  friends  had  so  suddenly  left  them,  the 
Meyricks  came  up  hot  and  perspiring  in  fear  lest 
they  should  be  too  late,  MissColley,  a  yellow  virgin 
of  austere  regard,  smiled  largely,  Mrs.  Dixon 
beckoned  wildly  with  her  parasol  to  the  '  girls ' 
who  were  idly  strolling  in  a  distant  part  of  the 
field,  and  the  archdeacon  ran  at  full  speed.  The 
air  grew  dark  with  bows,  and  resonant  with  the 
genial  laugh  of  the  archdeacon,  the  cackle  of  the 
younger  ladies,  and  the  shrill  parrot-like  voices  of 
the  matrons  ;  those  smiled  who  had  never  smiled 
before,  and  on  some  maiden  faces  there  hovered 
that  look  of  adoring  ecstasy  with  which  the  old 
masters  graced  their  angels.  Then,  when  all  the 
due  rites  had  been  performed,  the  company 
turned  and  began  to  walk  towards  the  booths 
of  their  small  Vanity  Fair.  Lord  Beamys  led  the 

US 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

way  with  Mrs.  Gervase,  Mrs.  Dixon  followed  with 
Sir  Vivian  Ponsonby,  and  the  multitudes  that 
followed  cried,  saying, '  What  a  dear  old  man  ! ' — 
'  Isn't  it  kind  o{  him  to  come  all  this  way?' — 'What 
a  sweet  expression,  isn't  it  ? ' — '  I  think  he's  an  old 
love ' — '  One  of  the  good  old  sort ' — '  Real  English 
nobleman  ' — '  Oh  most  correct,  I  assure  you  ;  if  a 
girl  gets  into  trouble,  notice  to  quit  at  once' — 
'Always  stands  by  the  Church ' — '  Twenty  livings 
in  his  gift' — 'Voted  for  the  Public  Worship  Regula- 
tion Act' — 'Ten  thousand  acres  strictly  preserved.' 
The  old  lord  was  leering  pleasantly  and  muttering 
to  himself:  '  Some  fine  gals  here.  Like  the  looks 
of  that  filly  with  the  pink  hat.  Ought  to  see 
more  of  her.  She'd  give  Lotty  points.' 

The  pomp  swept  slowly  across  the  grass :  the 
archdeacon  had  got  hold  of  Mr.  Dixon,  and  they 
were  discussing  the  misdeeds  of  some  clergyman 
in  the  rural  deanery. 

'  I  can  scarce  credit  it,'  said  Mr.  Dixon. 

'  Oh,  I  assure  you,  there  can  be  no  doubt.  We 
have  witnesses.  There  can  be  no  question  that 
there  was  a  procession  at  Llanfihangel  on  the 
Sunday  before  Easter ;  the  choir  and  minister 
went  round  the  church,  carrying  palm  branches  in 
their  hands.' 

136 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

'  Very  shocking.' 

"  It  has  distressed  the  bishop.  Martin  is  a 
hard-working  man  enough,  and  all  that,  but  those 
sort  of  things  can't  be  tolerated.  The  bishop  told 
me  that  he  had  set  his  face  against  processions.' 

'  Quite  right :  the  bishop  is  perfectly  right. 
Processions  are  unscriptural.' 

'  It's  the  thin  end  of  the  wedge,  you  know, 
Dixon.' 

'  Exactly.  I  have  always  resisted  anything  of 
the  kind  here.' 

'  Right.  Principiis  obsta,  you  know.  Martin 
is  so  imprudent.  There's  a  way  of  doing  things.' 

The  '  scriptural '  procession  led  by  Lord 
Beamys  broke  up  when  the  stalls  were  reached, 
and  gathered  round  the  nobleman  as  he  declared 
the  bazaar  open. 

Lucian  was  sitting  on  a  garden-seat,  a  little 
distance  off,  looking  dreamily  before  him.  And 
all  that  he  saw  was  a  swarm  of  flies  clustering 
and  buzzing  about  a  lump  of  tainted  meat  that 
lay  on  the  grass.  The  spectacle  in  no  way  inter- 
rupted the  harmony  of  his  thoughts,  and  soon 
after  the  opening  of  the  bazaar  he  went  quietly 
away,  walking  across  the  fields  in  the  direction  of 
the  ancient  mounds  he  desired  to  inspect. 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

All  these  journeys  of  his  to  Caermaen  and  its 
neighbourhood  had  a  peculiar  object ;  he  was 
gradually  levelling  to  the  dust  the  squalid  kraals 
of  modern  times,  and  rebuilding  the  splendid  and 
golden  city  of  Siluria.  All  this  mystic  town  was 
for  the  delight  of  his  sweetheart  and  himself ;  for 
her  the  wonderful  villas,  the  shady  courts,  the 
magic  of  tessellated  pavements,  and  the  hangings 
of  rich  stuffs  with  their  intricate  and  glowing 
patterns.  Lucian  wandered  all  day  through  the 
shining  streets,  taking  shelter  sometimes  in  the 
gardens  beneath  the  dense  and  gloomy  ilex  trees, 
and  listening  to  the  plash  and  trickle  of  the 
fountains.  Sometimes  he  would  look  out  of  a 
window  and  watch  the  crowd  and  colour  of  the 
market-place,  and  now  and  again  a  ship  came  up 
the  river  bringing  exquisite  silks  and  the  merchan- 
dise of  unknown  lands  in  the  Far  East.  He  had 
made  a  curious  and  accurate  map  of  the  town  he 
proposed  to  inhabit,  in  which  every  villa  was  set 
down  and  named.  He  drew  his  lines  to  scale 
with  the  gravity  of  a  surveyor,  and  studied  the 
plan  till  he  was  able  to  find  his  way  from  house 
to  house  on  the  darkest  summer  night.  On  the 
southern  slopes  about  the  town  there  were  vine- 
yards, always  under  a  glowing  sun,  and  sometimes 
138 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

he  ventured  to  the  furthest  ridge  of  the  forest, 
where  the  wild  people  still  lingered,  that  he  might 
catch  the  golden  gleam  of  the  city  far  away,  as 
the  light  quivered  and  scintillated  on  the  glitter- 
ing tiles.  And  there  were  gardens  outside  the 
city  gates  where  strange  and  brilliant  flowers 
grew,  filling  the  hot  air  with  their  odour,  and 
scenting  the  breeze  that  blew  along  the  streets. 
The  dull  modern  life  was  far  away,  and  people 
who  saw  him  at  this  period  wondered  what  was 
amiss ;  the  abstraction  of  his  glance  was  obvious, 
even  to  eyes  not  over-sharp.  But  men  and  women 
had  lost  all  their  power  of  annoyance  and  vexa- 
tion; they  could  no  longer  even  interrupt  his 
thought  for  a  moment.  He  could  listen  to  Mr. 
Dixon  with  apparent  attention,  while  he  was  in 
reality  enraptured  by  the  entreating  music  of  the 
double  flute,  played  by  a  girl  in  the  garden  of 
Avallaunius,  for  that  was  the  name  he  had  taken. 
Mr.  Dixon  was  innocently  discoursing  archaeology, 
giving  a  brief  r/sum^  of  the  views  expressed  by 
Mr.  Wyndham  at  the  last  meeting  of  the  anti- 
quarian society. 

'  There  can  be  no  doubt  that  the  temple  of 
Diana  stood  there  in  pagan  times,'  he  concluded, 
and  Lucian  assented  to  the  opinion,  and  asked 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

a  few  questions  which  seemed  pertinent  enough. 
But  all  the  time  the  flute  notes  were  sounding  in 
his  ears,  and  the  ilex  threw  a  purple  shadow  on 
the  white  pavement  before  his  villa.  A  boy  came 
forward  from  the  garden ;  he  had  been  walking 
amongst  the  vines  and  plucking  the  ripe  grapes, 
and  the  juice  had  trickled  down  over  his  breast. 
Standing  beside  the  girl,  unashamed  in  the  sun- 
light, he  began  to  sing  one  of  Sappho's  love 
songs.  His  voice  was  as  full  and  rich  as  a 
woman's,  but  purged  of  all  emotion,  he  was  an 
instrument  of  music  in  the  flesh.  Lucian  looked 
at  him  steadily ;  the  white  perfect  body  shone 
against  the  roses  and  the  blue  of  the  sky,  clear 
and  gleaming  as  marble  in  the  glare  of  the  sun. 
The  words  he  sang  burned  and  flamed  with 
passion,  and  he  was  as  unconscious  of  their 
meaning  as  the  twin  pipes  of  the  flute.  And  the 
girl  was  smiling.  The  vicar  shook  hands  and 
went  on,  well  pleased  with  his  remarks  on  the 
temple  of  Diana  and  also  with  Lucian's  polite 
interest. 

'  He  is  by  no  means  wanting  in  intelligence,' 
he  said  to  his  family.  'A  little  curious  in  manner, 
perhaps,  but  not  stupid.' 

'Oh,  papa,'  said  Henrietta,  'don't  you  think 
140 


THE    HILL  OF   DREAMS 

he  is  rather  silly  ?  He  can't  talk  about  anything 
— anything  interesting,  I  mean.  And  he  pretends 
to  know  a  lot  about  books,  but  I  heard  him  say 
the  other  day  he  had  never  read  The  Prince  of 
the  House  of  David  or  Ben-Hur.  Fancy  L^_ 

The  vicar  had  not  interrupted  Lucian.  The 
sun  still  beat  upon  the  roses,  and  a  little  breeze 
bore  the  scent  of  them  to  his  nostrils  together 
with  the  smell  of  grapes  and  vine-leaves.  He 
had  become  curious  in  sensation,  and  as  he  leant 
back  upon  the  cushions  covered  with  glistening 
yellow  silk,  he  was  trying  to  analyse  a  strange 
ingredient  in  the  perfume  of  the  air.  He  had 
penetrated  far  beyond  the  crude  distinctions  of 
modern  times,  beyond  the  rough :  'there's  a  smell 
of  roses,'  'there  must  be  sweetbriar  somewhere.' 
Modern  perceptions  of  odour  were,  he  knew,  far 
below  those  of  the  savage  in  delicacy.  The 
degraded  black  fellow  of  Australia  could  distin- 
guish odours  in  a  way  that  made  the  consumer  of 
'damper'  stare  in  amazement,  but  the  savage's 
sensations  were  all  strictly  utilitarian.  To  Lucian 
as  he  sat  in  the  cool  porch,  his  feet  on  the  marble, 
the  air  came  laden  with  scents  as  subtly  and 
wonderfully  interwoven  and  contrasted  as  the 
harmonies  of  a  great  master.  The  stained  marble 
141 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

of  the  pavement  gave  a  cool  reminiscence  of  the 
Italian  mountain,  the  blood-red  roses  palpitating 
in  the  sunlight  sent  out  an  odour  mystical  as 
passion  itself,  and  there  was  the  hint  of  inebria- 
tion in  the  perfume  of  the  trellised  vines.  Be- 
sides these,  the  girl's  desire  and  the  unripe 
innocence  of  the  boy  were  as  distinct  as  benzoin 
and  myrrh,  both  delicious  and  exquisite,  and 
exhaled  as  freely  as  the  scent  of  the  roses.  But 
there  was  another  element  that  puzzled  him,  an 
aromatic  suggestion  of  the  forest.  He  under- 
stood it  at  last ;  it  was  the  vapour  of  the  great 
red  pines  that  grew  beyond  the  garden  ;  their 
spicy  needles  were  burning  in  the  sun,  and  the 
smell  was  as  fragrant  as  the  fume  of  incense 
blown  from  far.  The  soft  entreaty  of  the  flute 
and  the  swelling  rapture  of  the  boy's  voice  beat 
on  the  air  together,  and  Lucian  wondered  whether 
there  were  in  the  nature  of  things  any  true  dis- 
tinction between  the  impressions  of  sound  and 
scent  and  colour.  The  violent  blue  of  the  sky, 
the  song,  and  the  odours  seemed  rather  varied 
symbols  of  one  mystery  than  distinct  entities. 
He  could  almost  imagine  that  the  boy's  innocence 
was  indeed  a  perfume,  and  that  the  palpitating 
roses  had  become  a  sonorous  chant. 
142 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

In  the  curious  silence  which  followed  the  last 
notes,  when  the  boy  and  girl  had  passed  under 
the  purple  ilex  shadow,  he  fell  into  a  reverie. 
The  fancy  that  sensations  are  symbols  and  not 
realities  hovered  in  his  mind,  and  led  him  to 
speculate  as  to  whether  they  could  not  actually 
be  transmuted  one  into  another.  It  was  possible, 
he  thought,  that  a  whole  continent  of  knowledge 
had  been  undiscovered ;  the  energies  of  men 
having  been  expended  in  unimportant  and  foolish 
directions.  Modern  ingenuity  had  been  employed 
on  such  trifles  as  locomotive  engines,  electric 
cables,  and  cantilever  bridges ;  on  elaborate  de- 
vices for  bringing  uninteresting  people  nearer 
together ;  the  ancients  had  been  almost  as  foolish, 
because  they  had  mistaken  the  symbol  for  the 
thing  signified.  It  was  not  the  material  banquet 
which  really  mattered,  but  the  thought  of  it ;  it 
was  almost  as  futile  to  eat  and  take  emetics  and 
eat  again  as  to  invent  telephones  and  high- 
pressure  boilers.  As  for  some  other  ancient 
methods  of  enjoying  life,  one  might  as  well  set 
oneself  to  improve  calico  printing  at  once. 

'  Only  in  the  garden  of  Avallaunius,'  said  Lucian 
to  himself, '  is  the  true  and  exquisite  science  to  be 
found.' 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

He  could  imagine  a  man  who  was  able  to  live 
in  one  sense  while  he  pleased ;  to  whom,  for 
example,  every  impression  of  touch,  taste,  hear- 
ing, or  seeing  should  be  translated  into  odour ; 
who  at  the  desired  kiss  should  be  ravished  with 
the  scent  of  dark  violets,  to  whom  music  should 
be  the  perfume  of  a  rose-garden  at  dawn. 

When,  now  and  again,  he  voluntarily  resumed 
the  experience  of  common  life,  it  was  that  he 
might  return  with  greater  delight  to  the  garden 
in  the  city  of  refuge.  In  the  actual  world  the 
talk  was  of  Nonconformists,  the  lodger  franchise, 
and  the  Stock  Exchange ;  people  were  constantly 
reading  newspapers,  drinking  Australian  Bur- 
gundy, and  doing  other  things  equally  absurd. 
They  either  looked  shocked  when  the  fine  art  of 
pleasure  was  mentioned,  or  confused  it  with  going 
to  musical  comedies,  drinking  bad  whisky,  and 
keeping  late  hours  in  disreputable  and  vulgar 
company.  He  found  to  his  amusement  that  the 
profligate  were  by  many  degrees  duller  than  the 
pious,  but  that  the  most  tedious  of  all  were 
the  persons  who  preached  promiscuity,  and  called 
their  system  of  '  pigging '  the  '  New  Morality.' 

He  went  back  to  the  city  lovingly,  because  it 
was  built  and  adorned  for  his  love.  As  the 
144 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

metaphysicians  insist  on  the  consciousness  of  the 
ego  as  the  implied  basis  of  all  thought,  so  he 
knew  that  it  was  she  in  whom  he  had  found 
himself,  and  through  whom  and  for  whom  all  the 
true  life  existed.  He  felt  that  Annie  had  taught 
him  the  rare  magic  which  had  created  the  garden 
of  Avallaunius.  It  was  for  her  that  he  sought 
strange  secrets  and  tried  to  penetrate  the  mysteries 
of  sensation,  for  he  could  only  give  her  wonder- 
ful thoughts  and  a  wonderful  life,  and  a  poor 
body  stained  with  the  scars  of  his  worship. 

It  was  with  this  object,  that  of  making  the 
offering  of  himself  a  worthy  one,  that  he  con- 
tinually searched  for  new  and  exquisite  experi- 
ences. He  made  lovers  come  before  him  and 
confess  their  secrets ;  he  pried  into  the  inmost 
mysteries  of  innocence  and  shame,  noting  how 
passion  and  reluctance  strive  together  for  the 
mastery.  In  the  amphitheatre  he  sometimes 
witnessed  strange  entertainments  in  which  such 
tales  as  Daphnis  and  Chloe  and  The  Golden  Ass 
were  performed  before  him.  These  shows  were 
always  given  at  night-time ;  a  circle  of  torch- 
bearers  surrounded  the  stage  in  the  centre,  and 
above,  all  the  tiers  of  seats  were  dark.  He  would 
look  up  at  the  soft  blue  of  the  summer  sky,  and 
L  MS 


THE   HILL  OF   DREAMS 

at  the  vast  dim  mountain  hovering  like  a  cloud 
in  the  west,  and  then  at  the  scene  illumined  by 
a  flaring  light,  and  contrasted  with  violent 
shadows.  The  subdued  mutter  of  conversation 
in  a  strange  language  rising  from  bench  after 
bench,  swift  hissing  whispers  of  explanation,  now 
and  then  a  shout  or  a  cry  as  the  interest  deepened, 
the  restless  tossing  of  the  people  as  the  end  drew 
near,  an  arm  lifted,  a  cloak  thrown  back,  the 
sudden  blaze  of  a  torch  lighting  up  purple  or 
white  or  the  gleam  of  gold  in  the  black  serried 
ranks;  these  were  impressions  that  seemed  always 
amazing.  And  above,  the  dusky  light  of  the 
stars,  around,  the  sweet-scented  meadows,  and 
the  twinkle  of  lamps  from  the  still  city,  the  cry 
of  the  sentries  about  the  walls,  the  wash  of  the 
tide  filling  the  river,  and  the  salt  savour  of  the 
sea.  With  such  a  scenic  ornament  he  saw  the 
tale  of  Apuleius  represented,  heard  the  names  of 
Fotis  and  Byrrhaena  and  Lucius  proclaimed, 
and  the  deep  intonation  of  such  sentences  as 
Ecce  Veneris  hortator  et  armiger  Liber  advenit 
ultro.  The  tale  went  on  through  all  its  marvellous 
adventures,  and  Lucian  left  the  amphitheatre  and 
walked  beside  the  river  where  he  could  hear  in- 
distinctly the  noise  of  voices  and  the  singing 
146 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

Latin,  and  note  how  the  rumour  of  the  stage 
mingled  with  the  murmur  of  the  shuddering 
reeds  and  the  cool  lapping  of  the  tide.  Then 
came  the  farewell  of  the  cantor,  the  thunder  of 
applause,  the  crash  of  cymbals,  the  calling  of  the 
flutes,  and  the  surge  of  the  wind  in  the  great 
dark  wood. 

At  other  times  it  was  his  chief  pleasure  to 
spend  a  whole  day  in  a  vineyard  planted  on  the 
steep  slope  beyond  the  bridge.  A  grey  stone 
seat  had  been  placed  beneath  a  shady  laurel,  and 
here  he  often  sat  without  motion  or  gesture  for 
many  hours.  Below  him  the  tawny  river  swept 
round  the  town  in  a  half  circle ;  he  could  see  the 
swirl  of  the  yellow  water,  its  eddies  and  miniature 
whirlpools,  as  the  tide  poured  up  from  the  south. 
And  beyond  the  river  the  strong  circuit  of  the 
walls,  and  within,  the  city  glittered  like  a  charm- 
ing piece  of  mosaic.  He  freed  himself  from  the 
obtuse  modern  view  of  towns  as  places  where 
human  beings  live  and  make  money  and  rejoice 
or  suffer,  for  from  the  standpoint  of  the  moment 
such  facts  were  wholly  impertinent.  He  knew 
perfectly  well  that  for  his  present  purpose  the 
tawny  sheen  and  shimmer  of  the  tide  was  the 
only  fact  of  importance  about  the  river,  and  so 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

he  regarded  the  city  as  a  curious  work  in  jewellery. 
Its  radiant  marble  porticoes,  the  white  walls  of 
the  villas,  a  dome  of  burning  copper,  the  flash 
and  scintillation  of  tiled  roofs,  the  quiet  red  of 
brickwork,  dark  groves  of  ilex,  and  cypress,  and 
laurel,  glowing  rose-gardens,  and  here  and  there 
the  silver  of  a  fountain,  seemed  arranged  and 
contrasted  with  a  wonderful  art,  and  the  town 
appeared  a  delicious  ornament,  every  cube  of 
colour  owing  its  place  to  the  thought  and  inspira- 
tion of  the  artificer.  Lucian,  as  he  gazed  from 
his  arbour  amongst  the  trellised  vines,  lost  none 
of  the  subtle  pleasures  of  the  sight ;  noting  every 
nuance  of  colour,  he  let  his  eyes  dwell  for  a 
moment  on  the  scarlet  flash  of  poppies,  and  then 
on  a  glazed  roof  which  in  the  glance  of  the  sun 
seemed  to  spout  white  fire.  A  square  of  vines 
was  like  some  rare  green  stone ;  the  grapes  were 
massed  so  richly  amongst  the  vivid  leaves,  that 
even  from  far  off  there  was  a  sense  of  irregular 
flecks  and  stains  of  purple  running  through  the 
green.  The  laurel  garths  were  like  cool  jade ; 
the  gardens,  where  red,  yellow,  blue  and  white 
gleamed  together  in  a  mist  of  heat,  had  the  radi- 
ance of  opal ;  the  river  was  a  band  of  dull  gold. 
On  every  side,  as  if  to  enhance  the  preciousness 
148 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

of  the  city,  the  woods  hung  dark  on  the  hills ; 
above,  the  sky  was  violet,  specked  with  minute 
feathery  clouds,  white  as  snowflakes.  It  reminded 
him  of  a  beautiful  bowl  in  his  villa ;  the  ground 
was  of  that  same  brilliant  blue,  and  the  artist 
had  fused  into  the  work  when  it  was  hot  particles 
of  pure  white  glass. 

For  Lucian  this  was  a  spectacle  that  enchanted 
many  hours ;  leaning  on  one  hand,  he  would  gaze 
at  the  city  glowing  in  the  sunlight  till  the  purple 
shadows  grew  down  the  slopes  and  the  long 
melodious  trumpet  sounded  for  the  evening 
watch.  Then,  as  he  strolled  beneath  the  trellises, 
he  would  see  all  the  radiant  facets  glimmering  out, 
and  the  city  faded  into  haze,  a  white  wall  shining 
here  and  there,  and  the  gardens  veiled  in  a  dim 
glow  of  colour.  On  such  an  evening  he  would  go 
home  with  the  sense  that  he  had  truly  lived  a 
day,  having  received  for  many  hours  the  most 
acute  impressions  of  beautiful  colour. 

Often  he  spent  the  night  in  the  cool  court  of 
his  villa,  lying  amidst  soft  cushions  heaped  upon 
the  marble  bench.  A  lamp  stood  on  the  table  at 
his  elbow,  its  light  making  the  water  in  the  cis- 
tern twinkle.  There  was  no  sound  in  the  court 
except  the  soft  continual  plashing  of  the  fountain. 
149 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

Throughout  these  still  hours  he  would  meditate, 
and  he  became  more  than  ever  convinced  that 
man  could,  if  he  pleased,  become  lord  of  his  own 
sensations.  This,  surely,  was  the  true  meaning 
concealed  under  the  beautiful  symbolism  of 
alchemy.  Some  years  before  he  had  read  many 
of  the  wonderful  alchemical  books  of  the  later 
Middle  Ages,  and  had  suspected  that  something 
other  than  the  turning  of  lead  into  gold  was 
intended.  This  impression  was  deepened  when 
he  looked  into  Lumen  de  Lumine  by  Vaughan, 
the  brother  of  the  Silurist,  and  he  had  long 
puzzled  himself  in  the  endeavour  to  find  a 
reasonable  interpretation  of  the  hermetic  mystery, 
and  of  the  red  powder, '  glistering  and  glorious  as 
the  sun.'  And  the  solution  shone  out  at  last, 
bright  and  amazing,  as  he  lay  quiet  in  the  court 
of  Avallaunius. 

He  knew  that  he  himself  had  solved  the  riddle, 
that  he  held  in  his  hand  the  powder  of  projection 
the  philosopher's  stone  transmuting  all  it  touched 
to  fine  gold  ;  the  gold  of  exquisite  impressions. 
He  understood  now  something  of  the  alchemical 
symbolism  ;  the  crucible  and  the  furnace,  the 
'  Green  Dragon,'  and  the  'Son  Blessed  of  the  Fire' 
had,  he  saw,  a  peculiar  meaning.  He  understood 
150 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

too  why  the  uninitiated  were  warned  of  the  terror 
and  danger  through  which  they  must  pass  ;  and 
the  vehemence  with  which  the  adepts  disclaimed 
all  desire  for  material  riches  no  longer  struck 
him  as  singular.  The  wise  man  does  not  endure 
the  torture  of  the  furnace  in  order  that  he  may  be 
able  to  compete  with  operators  in  pork  and 
company  promoters  ;  neither  a  steam  yacht,  nor 
a  grouse-moor,  nor  three  liveried  footmen  would 
add  at  all  to  his  gratifications.  Again  Lucian 
said  to  himself: 

'  Only  in  the  court  of  Avallaunius  is  the  true 
science  of  the  exquisite  to  be  found.' 

He  saw  the  true  gold  into  which  the  beggarly 
matter  of  existence  may  be  transmuted  by 
spagyric  art ;  a  succession  of  delicious  moments, 
all  the  rare  flavours  of  life  concentrated,  purged  of 
their  lees,  and  preserved  in  a  beautiful  vessel. 
The  moonlight  fell  green  on  the  fountain  and  on 
the  curious  pavements,  and  in  the  long  sweet 
silence  of  the  night  he  lay  still  and  felt  that 
thought  itself  was  an  acute  pleasure,  to  be  ex- 
pressed perhaps  in  terms  of  odour  or  colour  by 
the  true  artist. 

And  he  gave  himself  other  and  even  stranger 
gratifications.  Outside  the  city  walls,  between  the 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

baths  and  the  amphitheatre,  was  a  tavern,  a  place 
where  wonderful  people  met  to  drink  wonderful 
wine.  There  he  saw  priests  of  Mithras  and  Isis 
and  of  more  occult  rites  from  the  East,  men  who 
wore  robes  of  bright  colours,  and  grotesque  orna- 
ments, symbolising  secret  things.  They  spoke 
amongst  themselves  in  a  rich  jargon  of  coloured 
words,  full  of  hidden  meanings  and  the  sense  of 
matters  unintelligible  to  the  uninitiated,  alluding 
to  what  was  concealed  beneath  roses,  and  calling 
each  other  by  strange  names.  And  there  were 
actors  who  gave  the  shows  in  the  amphitheatre, 
officers  of  the  legion  who  had  served  in  wild 
places,  singers,  and  dancing  girls,  and  heroes  of 
strange  adventure. 

The  walls  of  the  tavern  were  covered  with 
pictures  painted  in  violent  hues ;  blues  and  reds 
and  greens  jarring  against  one  another  and  light- 
ing up  the  gloom  of  the  place.  The  stone  benches 
were  always  crowded,  the  sunlight  came  in  through 
the  door  in  a  long  bright  beam,  casting  a  dancing 
shadow  of  vine  leaves  on  the  further  wall.  There 
a  painter  had  made  a  joyous  figure  of  the  young 
Bacchus  driving  the  leopards  before  him  with  his 
ivy-staff,  and  the  quivering  shadow  seemed  a  part 
of  the  picture.  The  room  was  cool  and  dark  and 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

cavernous,  but  the  scent  and  heat  of  the  summer 
gushed  in  through  the  open  door.  There  was 
ever  a  full  sound,  with  noise  and  vehemence,  there> 
and  the  rolling  music  of  the  Latin  tongue  never 
ceased. 

'  The  wine  of  the  siege,  the  wine  that  we  saved/ 
cried  one. 

'Look  for  the  jar  marked  Faunus ;  you  will 
be  glad.' 

'  Bring  me  the  wine  of  the  Owl's  Face.' 
'  Let  us  have  the  wine  of  Saturn's  Bridge.' 
The  boys  who  served  brought  the  wine  in  dull 
red  jars  that  struck  a  charming  note  against  their 
white  robes.  They  poured  out  the  violet  and 
purple  and  golden  wine  with  calm  sweet  faces  as 
if  they  were  assisting  in  the  mysteries,  without 
any  sign  that  they  heard  the  strange  words  that 
flashed  from  side  to  side.  The  cups  were  all  of 
glass :  some  were  of  deep  green,  of  the  colour  of 
the  sea  near  the  land,  flawed  and  specked  with 
the  bubbles  of  the  furnace.  Others  were  of  bril- 
liant scarlet,  streaked  with  irregular  bands  of 
white,  and  having  the  appearance  of  white  glob- 
ules in  the  moulded  stem.  There  were  cups  of 
dark  glowing  blue,  deeper  and  more  shining  than 
the  blue  of  the  sky,  and  running  through  the 

'53 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

substance  of  the  glass  were  veins  of  rich  gam- 
boge yellow,  twining  from  the  brim  to  the  foot. 
Some  cups  were  of  a  troubled  and  clotted  red, 
with  alternating  blotches  of  dark  and  light,  some 
were  variegated  with  white  and  yellow  stains, 
some  wore  a  film  of  rainbow  colours,  some  glit- 
tered, shot  with  gold  threads  through  the  clear 
crystal,  some  were  as  if  sapphires  hung  sus- 
pended in  running  water,  some  sparkled  with  the 
glint  of  stars,  some  were  black  and  golden  like 
the  tortoiseshell. 

A  strange  feature  was  the  constant  and  flutter- 
ing motion  of  hands  and  arms.  Gesture  made  a 
constant  commentary  on  speech ;  white  fingers, 
whiter  arms,  and  sleeves  of  all  colours,  hovered 
restlessly,  appeared  and  disappeared  with  an 
effect  of  threads  crossing  and  recrossing  on  the 
loom.  And  the  odour  of  the  place  was  both 
curious  and  memorable ;  something  of  the  damp 
cold  breath  of  the  cave  meeting  the  hot  blast  of 
summer,  the  strangely  mingled  aromas  of  rare 
wines  as  they  fell  plashing  and  ringing  into  the 
cups,  the  drugged  vapour  of  the  East  that  the 
priests  of  Mithras  and  I  sis  bore  from  their  steam- 
ing temples  ;  these  were  always  strong  and  domi- 
nant. And  the  women  were  scented,  sometimes 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

with  unctuous  and  overpowering  perfumes,  and 
to  the  artist  the  experiences  of  those  present 
were  hinted  in  subtle  and  delicate  nuances  of 
odour. 

They  drank  their  wine  and  caressed  all  day  in 
the  tavern.  The  women  threw  their  round  white 
arms  about  their  lovers'  necks,  they  intoxicated 
them  with  the  scent  of  their  hair,  the  priests 
muttered  their  fantastic  jargon  of  Theurgy.  And 
through  the  sonorous  clash  of  voices  there  always 
seemed  the  ring  of  the  cry : 

'  Look  for  the  jar  marked  Faunus ;  you  will  be 
glad.' 

Outside,  the  vine  tendrils  shook  on  the  white 
walls  glaring  in  the  sunshine ;  the  breeze  swept 
up  from  the  yellow  river,  pungent  with  the  salt 
sea  savour. 

These  tavern  scenes  were  often  the  subject  of 
Lucian's  meditation  as  he  sat  amongst  the 
cushions  on  the  marble  seat.  The  rich  sound  of 
the  voices  impressed  him  above  all  things,  and  he 
saw  that  words  have  a  far  higher  reason  than  the 
utilitarian  office  of  imparting  a  man's  thought. 
The  common  notion  that  language  and  linked 
words  are  important  only  as  a  means  of  expres- 
sion he  found  a  little  ridiculous ;  as  if  electricity 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

were  to  be  studied  solely  with  the  view  of  'wiring' 
to  people,  and  all  its  other  properties  left  unex- 
plored, neglected.  Language,  he  understood,  was 
chiefly  important  for  the  beauty  of  its  sounds,  by 
its  possession  of  words  resonant,  glorious  to  the 
ear,  by  its  capacity,  when  exquisitely  arranged,  of 
suggesting  wonderful  and  indefinable  impressions, 
perhaps  more  ravishing  and  farther  removed  from 
the  domain  of  strict  thought  than  the  impressions 
excited  by  music  itself.  Here  lay  hidden  the 
secret  of  the  sensuous  art  of  literature,  it  was  the 
secret  of  suggestion,  the  art  of  causing  delicious 
sensation  by  the  use  of  words.  In  a  way,  there- 
fore, literature  was  independent  of  thought ;  the 
mere  English  listener,  if  he  had  an  ear  attuned, 
could  recognise  the  beauty  of  a  splendid  Latin 
phrase. 

Here  was  the  explanation  of  the  magic  of 
Lycidas.  From  the  standpoint  of  the  formal  un- 
derstanding it  was  an  affected  lament  over  some 
wholly  uninteresting  and  unimportant  Mr.  King ; 
it  was  full  of  nonsense  about  'shepherds'  and 
'  flocks '  and  '  muses '  and  such  stale  stock  of 
poetry ;  the  introduction  of  St.  Peter  on  a  stage 
thronged  with  nymphs  and  river  gods  was  blas- 
phemous, absurd,  and,  in  the  worst  taste,  there 
156 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

were  touches  of  greasy  Puritanism,  the  twang  of 
the  conventicle  was  only  too  apparent.  And 
Lycidas  was  probably  the  most  perfect  piece  of 
pure  literature  in  existence ;  because  every  word 
and  phrase  and  line  were  sonorous,  ringing  and 
echoing  with  music. 

'Literature,'  he  re-enunciated  in  his  mind,  'is 
the  sensuous  art  of  causing  exquisite  impressions 
by  means  of  words.' 

And  yet  there  was  something  more  ;  besides  the 
logical  thought,  which  was  often  a  hindrance,  a 
troublesome  though  inseparable  accident,  besides 
the  sensation,  always  a  pleasure  and  a  delight, 
besides  these  there  were  the  indefinable  inex- 
pressible images  which  all  fine  literature  summons 
to  the  mind.  As  the  chemist  in  his  experiments 
is  sometimes  astonished  to  find  unknown,  unex- 
pected elements  in  the  crucible  or  the  receiver,  as 
the  world  of  material  things  is  considered  by 
some  a  thin  veil  of  the  immaterial  universe,  so  he 
who  reads  wonderful  prose  or  verse  is  conscious 
of  suggestions  that  cannot  be  put  into  words, 
which  do  not  rise  from  the  logical  sense,  which 
are  rather  parallel  to  than  connected  with  the 
sensuous  delight.  The  world  so  disclosed  is 
rather  the  world  of  dreams,  rather  the  world  in 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

which  children  sometimes  live,  instantly  appear- 
ing, and  instantly  vanishing  away,  a  world  be- 
yond all  expression  or  analysis,  neither  of  the 
intellect  nor  of  the  senses.  He  called  these 
fancies  of  his  '  Meditations  of  a  Tavern,'  and  was 
amused  to  think  that  a  theory  of  letters  should 
have  risen  from  the  eloquent  noise  that  rang  all 
day  about  the  violet  and  golden  wine. 

'  Let  us  seek  for  more  exquisite  things,'  said 
Lucian  to  himself.  He  could  almost  imagine  the 
magic  transmutation  of  the  senses  accomplished, 
the  strong  sunlight  was  an  odour  in  his  nostrils ; 
it  poured  down  on  the  white  marble  and  the  palpi- 
tating roses  like  a  flood.  The  sky  was  a  glorious 
blue,  making  the  heart  joyous,  and  the  eyes  could 
rest  in  the  dark  green  leaves  and  purple  shadow 
of  the  ilex.  The  earth  seemed  to  burn  and  leap 
beneath  the  sun,  he  fancied  he  could  see  the  vine 
tendrils  stir  and  quiver  in  the  heat,  and  the  faint 
fume  of  the  scorching  pine  needles  was  blown 
across  the  gleaming  garden  to  the  seat  beneath 
the  porch.  Wine  was  before  him  in  a  cup  of 
carved  amber  ;  a  wine  of  the  colour  of  a  dark 
rose,  with  a  glint  as  of  a  star  or  of  a  jet  of  flame 
deep  beneath  the  brim  ;  and  the  cup  was  twined 
about  with  a  delicate  wreath  of  ivy.  He  was 
158 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

often  loath  to  turn  away  from  the  still  contempla- 
tion of  such  things,  from  the  mere  joy  of  the 
violent  sun,  and  the  responsive  earth.  He  loved 
his  garden  and  the  view  of  the  tessellated  city 
from  the  vineyard  on  the  hill,  the  strange  clamour 
of  the  tavern,  and  white  Fotis  appearing  on  the 
torch-lit  stage.  And  there  were  shops  in  the  town 
in  which  he  delighted,  the  shops  of  the  perfume 
makers,  and  jewellers,  and  dealers  in  curious 
ware.  He  loved  to  see  all  things  made  for  ladies' 
use,  to  touch  the  gossamer  silks  that  were  to 
touch  their  bodies,  to  finger  the  beads  of  amber 
and  the  gold  chains  which  would  stir  above 
their  hearts,  to  handle  the  carved  hairpins  and 
brooches,  to  smell  odours  which  were  already 
dedicated  to  love. 

But  though  these  were  sweet  and  delicious 
gratifications,  he  knew  that  there  were  more  ex- 
quisite things  of  which  he  might  be  a  spectator. 
He  had  seen  the  folly  of  regarding  fine  literature 
from  the  standpoint  of  the  logical  intellect,  and 
he  now  began  to  question  the  wisdom  of  looking 
at  life  as  if  it  were  a  moral  representation. 
Literature,  he  knew,  could  not  exist  without  some 
meaning,  and  considerations  of  right  and  wrong 
were  to  a  certain  extent  inseparable  from  the  con- 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

ception  of  life,  but  to  insist  on  ethics  as  the  chief 
interest  of  the  human  pageant  was  surely  absurd. 
One  might  as  well  read  Lycidas  for  the  sake  of 
its  denunciation  of  'our  corrupted  Clergy,'  or 
Homer  for  'manners  and  customs.'  An  artist 
entranced  by  a  beautiful  landscape  did  not  greatly 
concern  himself  with  the  geological  formation  of 
the  hills,  nor  did  the  lover  of  a  wild  sea  inquire  as 
to  the  chemical  analysis  of  the  water.  Lucian 
saw  a  coloured  and  complex  life  displayed  before 
him,  and  he  sat  enraptured  at  the  spectacle,  not 
concerned  to  know  whether  actions  were  good  or 
bad,  but  content  if  they  were  curious. 

In  this  spirit  he  made  a  singular  study  of 
corruption.  Beneath  his  feet,  as  he  sat  in  the 
garden  porch,  was  a  block  of  marble  through 
which  there  ran  a  scarlet  stain.  It  began  with 
a  faint  line,  thin  as  a  hair,  and  grew  as  it  advanced, 
sending  out  offshoots  to  right  and  left,  and 
broadening  to  a  pool  of  brilliant  red.  There 
were  strange  lives  into  which  he  looked  that  were 
like  the  block  of  marble ;  women  with  grave 
sweet  faces  told  him  the  astounding  tale  of  their 
adventures,  and  how,  as  they  said,  they  had  met  the 
faun  when  they  were  little  children.  They  told 
him  how  they  had  played  and  watched  by  the 
1 60 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

vines  and  the  fountains,  and  dallied  with  the 
nymphs,  and  gazed  at  image?  reflected  in  the 
water  pools,  till  the  authentic  face  appeared  from 
the  wood.  He  heard  others  tell  how  they  had 
loved  the  satyrs  for  many  years  before  they  knew 
their  race ;  and  there  were  strange  stories  of 
those  who  had  longed  to  speak  but  knew  not  the 
word  of  the  enigma,  and  searched  in  all  strange 
paths  and  ways  before  they  found  it. 

He  heard  the  history  of  the  woman  who  fell  in 
love  with  her  slave-boy,  and  tempted  him  for 
three  years  in  vain.  He  heard  the  tale  from  the 
woman's  full  red  lips,  and  watched  her  face,  full 
of  the  ineffable  sadness  of  lust,  as  she  described 
her  curious  stratagems  in  mellow  phrases.  She 
was  drinking  a  sweet  yellow  wine  from  a  gold  cup 
as  she  spoke,  and  the  odour  in  her  hair  and  the 
aroma  of  the  precious  wine  seemed  to  mingle 
with  the  soft  strange  words  that  flowed  like  an 
unguent  from  a  carven  jar.  She  told  how  she 
bought  the  boy  in  the  market  of  an  Asian  city, 
and  had  him  carried  to  her  house  in  the  grove  of 
fig-trees.  '  Then,'  she  went  on,  '  he  was  led  into 
my  presence  as  I  sat  between  the  columns  of  my 
court.  A  blue  veil  was  spread  above  to  shut  out 
the  heat  of  the  sun,  and  rather  twilight  than  light 
M  161 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

shone  on  the  painted  walls,  and  the  wonderful 
colours  of  the  pavement,  and  the  images  of  Love 
and  the  Mother  of  Love.  The  men  who  brought 
the  boy  gave  him  over  to  my  girls,  who  undressed 
him  before  me,  one  drawing  gently  away  his  robe, 
another  stroking  his  brown  and  flowing  hair, 
another  praising  the  whiteness  of  his  limbs,  and 
another  caressing  him,  and  speaking  loving  words 
in  his  ear.  But  the  boy  looked  sullenly  at  them 
all,  striking  away  their  hands,  and  pouting  with  his 
lovely  and  splendid  lips,  and  I  saw  a  blush,  like 
the  rosy  veil  of  dawn,  reddening  his  body  and  his 
cheeks.  Then  I  made  them  bathe  him,  and  anoint 
him  with  scented  oils  from  head  to  foot,  till  his 
limbs  shone  and  glistened  with  the  gentle  and 
mellow  glow  of  an  ivory  statue.  Then  I  said  : 
''You  are  bashful,  because  you  shine  alone  amongst 
us  all ;  see,  we  too  will  be  your  fellows."  The 
girls  began  first  of  all,  fondling  and  kissing  one 
another,  and  doing  for  each  other  the  offices  of 
waiting -maids.  They  drew  out  the  pins  and 
loosened  the  bands  of  their  hair,  and  I  never 
knew  before  that  they  were  so  lovely.  The  soft 
and  shining  tresses  flowed  down,  rippling  like 
sea-waves  ;  some  had  hair  golden  and  radiant  as 
this  wine  in  my  cup,  the  faces  of  others  appeared 
162 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

amidst  the  blackness  of  ebony ;  there  were  locks 
that  seemed  of  burnished  and  scintillating  copper, 
some  glowed  with  hair  of  tawny  splendour,  and 
others  were  crowned  with  the  brightness  of  the 
sardonyx.  Then,  laughing,  and  without  the  ap- 
pearance of  shame,  they  unfastened  the  brooches 
and  the  bands  which  sustained  their  robes,  and  so 
allowed  silk  and  linen  to  flow  swiftly  to  the 
stained  floor,  so  that  one  would  have  said  there 
was  a  sudden  apparition  of  the  fairest  nymphs. 
With  many  festive  and  jocose  words  they  began 
to  incite  each  other  to  mirth,  praising  the  beauties 
that  shone  on  every  side,  and  calling  the  boy  by 
a  girl's  name,  they  invited  him  to  be  their  play- 
mate. But  he  refused,  shaking  his  head,  and  still 
standing  dumbfounded  and  abashed,  as  if  he  saw 
a  forbidden  and  terrible  spectacle.  Then  I  ordered 
the  women  to  undo  my  hair  and  my  clothes, 
making  them  caress  me  with  the  tenderness  of 
the  fondest  lover,  but  without  avail,  for  the  foolish 
boy  still  scowled  and  pouted  out  his  lips,  stained 
with  an  imperial  and  glorious  scarlet.' 

She  poured   out   more  of 'the  topaz-coloured 

wine  in  her  cup,  and  Lucian  saw  it  glitter  as  it 

rose  to  the  brim  and  mirrored  the  gleam  of  the 

lamps.     The  tale  went  on,  recounting  a  hundred 

163 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

strange  devices.  The  woman  told  how  she  had 
tempted  the  boy  by  idleness  and  ease,  giving  him 
long  hours  of  sleep,  and  allowing  him  to  recline 
all  day  on  soft  cushions,  that  swelled  about  him, 
enclosing  his  body.  She  tried  the  experiment  of 
curious  odours :  causing  him  to  smell  always 
about  him  the  oil  of  roses,  and  burning  in  his 
presence  rare  gums  from  the  East.  He  was 
allured  by  soft  dresses,  being  clothed  in  silks 
that  caressed  the  skin  with  the  sense  of  a  fondling 
touch.  Three  times  a  day  they  spread  before  him 
a  delicious  banquet,  full  of  savour  and  odour  and 
colour ;  three  times  a  day  they  endeavoured  to 
intoxicate  him  with  delicate  wine. 

'  And  so,'  the  lady  continued, '  I  spared  nothing 
to  catch  him  in  the  glistering  nets  of  love  ;  taking 
only  sour  and  contemptuous  glances  in  return. 
And  at  last  in  an  incredible  shape  I  won  the  vic- 
tory, and  then,  having  gained  a  green  crown 
fighting  in  agony  against  his  green  and  crude 
immaturity,  I  devoted  him  to  the  theatre,  where 
he  amused  the  people  by  the  splendour  of  his 
death.' 

On  another  evening  he  heard  the  history  of  the 
man  who  dwelt  alone,  refusing  all  allurements, 
and  was  at  last  discovered  to  be  the  lover  of  a 
164 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

black  statue.  And  there  were  tales  of  strange 
cruelties,  of  men  taken  by  mountain  robbers,  and 
curiously  maimed  and  disfigured,  so  that  when 
they  escaped  and  returned  to  the  town,  they  were 
thought  to  be  monsters  and  killed  at  their  own 
doors.  Lucian  left  no  dark  or  secret  nook  of  life 
unvisited ;  he  sat  down,  as  he  said,  at  the  banquet 
resolved  to  taste  all  the  savours,  and  to  leave  no 
flagon  unvisited. 

His  relations  grew  seriously  alarmed  about  him 
at  this  period.  While  he  heard  with  some  inner 
ear  the  suave  and  eloquent  phrases  of  singular 
tales,  and  watched  the  lamp-light  in  amber  and 
purple  wine,  his  father  saw  a  lean  pale  boy,  with 
black  eyes  that  burnt  in  hollows,  and  sad  and 
sunken  cheeks. 

'  You  ought  to  try  and  eat  more,  Lucian,'  said 
the  parson;  'and  why  don't  you  have  some  beer?' 

He  was  pecking  feebly  at  the  roast  mutton  and 
sipping  a  little  water;  but  he  would  not  have 
eaten  or  drunk  with  more  relish  if  the  choicest 
meat  and  drink  had  been  before  him. 

His  bones  seemed,  as  Miss  Deacon  said,  to  be 
growing  through  his  skin ;  he  had  all  the  appear- 
ance of  an  ascetic  whose  body  has  been  reduced 
to  misery  by  long  and  grievous  penance.  People 

'65 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

who  chanced  to  see  him  could  not  help  saying  to 
one  another :  '  How  ill  and  wretched  that  Lucian 
Taylor  looks ! '  They  were  of  course  quite  un- 
aware of  the  joy  and  luxury  in  which  his  real  life 
was  spent,  and  some  of  them  began  to  pity  him, 
and  to  speak  to  him  kindly. 

It  was  too  late  for  that.  The  friendly  words 
had  as  much  lost  their  meaning  as  the  words  of 
contempt.  Edward  Dixon  hailed  him  cheerfully 
in  the  street  one  day  : 

'  Come  in  to  my  den,  won't  you,  old  fellow  ? ' 
he  said.  '  You  won't  see  the  pater.  I've  man- 
aged to  bag  a  bottle  of  his  old  port.  I  know  you 
smoke  like  a  furnace,  and  I've  got  some  ripping 
cigars.  You  will  come,  won't  you  !  I  can  tell 
you  the  pater's  booze  is  first  rate.' 

He  gently  declined  and  went  on.  Kindness 
and  unkindness,  pity  and  contempt  had  become 
for  him  mere  phrases;  he  could  not  have  dis- 
tinguished one  from  the  other.  Hebrew  and 
Chinese,  Hungarian  and  Pushtu  would  be  pretty 
much  alike  to  an  agricultural  labourer ;  if  he 
cared  to  listen  he  might  detect  some  general 
differences  in  sound,  but  all  four  tongues  would 
be  equally  devoid  of  significance. 

To  Lucian,  entranced  in  the  garden  of  Aval- 
166 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

launius,  it  seemed  very  strange  that  he  had  once 
been  so  ignorant  of  all  the  exquisite  meanings  of 
life.  Now,  beneath  the  violet  sky,  looking  through 
the  brilliant  trellis  of  the  vines,  he  saw  the  pic- 
ture ;  before,  he  had  gazed  in  sad  astonishment 
at  the  squalid  rag  which  was  wrapped  about  it. 


167 


AND  he  was  at  last  in  the  city  of  the  unending 
murmuring  streets,  a  part  of  the  stirring  shadow, 
of  the  amber-lighted  gloom. 

It  seemed  a  long  time  since  he  had  knelt  before 
his  sweetheart  in  the  lane,  the  moon-fire  stream- 
ing upon  them  from  the  dark  circle  of  the  fort, 
the  air  and  the  light  and  his  soul  full  of  haunting, 
the  touch  of  the  unimaginable  thrilling  his  heart ; 
and  now  he  sat  in  a  terrible  '  bed-sitting-room '  in 
a  western  suburb,  confronted  by  a  heap  and  litter 
of  papers  on  the  desk  of  a  battered  old  bureau. 

He  had  put  his  breakfast-tray  out  on  the  land- 
ing, and  was  thinking  of  the  morning's  work,  and 
of  some  very  dubious  pages  that  he  had  black- 
ened the  night  before.  But  when  he  had  lit  his 
disreputable  briar,  he  remembered  there  was  an 
unopened  letter  waiting  for  him  on  the  table ;  he 
had  recognised  the  vague,  staggering  script  of 
Miss  Deacon,  his  cousin.  There  was  not  much 
news;  his  father  was  'just  the  same  as  usual,' 
168 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

there  had  been  a  good  deal  of  rain,  the  farmers 
expected  to  make  a  lot  of  cider,  and  so  forth. 
But  at  the  close  of  the  letter  Miss  Deacon  became 
useful  for  reproof  and  admonition. 

'  I  was  at  Caermaen  on  Tuesday,'  she  said, 
'  and  called  on  the  Gervases  and  the  Dixons.  Mr. 
Gervase  smiled  when  I  told  him  you  were  a 
literary  man,  living  in  London,  and  said  he  was 
afraid  you  wouldn't  find  it  a  very  practical  career. 
Mrs.  Gervase  was  very  proud  of  Henry's  success; 
he  passed  fifth  for  some  examination,  and  will 
begin  with  nearly  four  hundred  a  year.  I  don't 
wonder  the  Gervases  are  delighted.  Then  I  went 
to  the  Dixons,  and  had  tea.  Mrs.  Dixon  wanted 
to  know  if  you  had  published  anything  yet,  and 
I  said  I  thought  not.  She  showed  me  a  book 
everybody  is  talking  about,  called  the  Dog  and 
the  Doctor.  She  says  it's  selling  by  thousands, 
and  that  one  can't  take  up  a  paper  without  seeing 
the  author's  name.  She  told  me  to  tell  you  that 
you  ought  to  try  to  write  something  like  it.  Then 
Mr.  Dixon  came  in  from  the  study,  and  your 
name  was  mentioned  again.  He  said  he  was 
afraid  you  had  made  rather  a  mistake  in  trying 
to  take  up  literature  as  if  it  were  a  profession, 
and  seemed  to  think  that  a  place  in  a  house  of 
169 


THE    HILL  OF   DREAMS 

business  would  be  more  suitable  and  more  prac- 
tical. He  pointed  out  that  you  had  not  had  the 
advantages  of  a  university  training,  and  said  that 
you  would  find  men  who  had  made  good  friends, 
and  had  the  tone  of  the  university,  would  be 
before  you  at  every  step.  He  said  Edward  was 
doing  very  well  at  Oxford.  He  writes  to  them 
that  he  knows  several  noblemen,  and  that  young 
Philip  Bullingham  (son  of  Sir  John  Bullingham) 
is  his  most  intimate  friend  ;  of  course  this  is  very 
satisfactory  for  the  Dixons.  I  am  afraid,  my 
dear  Lucian,  you  have  rather  overrated  your 
powers.  Wouldn't  it  be  better,  even  now,  to  look 
out  for  some  real  work  to  do,  instead  of  wasting 
your  time  over  those  silly  old  books?  I  know 
quite  well  how  the  Gervases  and  the  Dixons  feel ; 
they  think  idleness  so  injurious  for  a  young  man, 
and  likely  to  lead  to  bad  habits.  You  know,  my 
dear  Lucian,  I  am  only  writing  like  this  because 
of  my  affection  for  you,  so  I  am  sure,  my  dear 
boy,  you  won't  be  offended.' 

Lucian  pigeon-holed  the  letter  solemnly  in  the 
receptacle  lettered  '  Barbarians.'  He  felt  that  he 
ought  to  ask  himself  some  serious  questions : '  Why 
haven't  I  passed  fifth?  why  isn't  Philip  (son  of 
Sir  John)  my  most  intimate  friend  ?  why  am  I  an 
170 


THE   HILL   OF   DjREAMS 

idler,  liable  to  fall  into  bad  habits  ? '  but  he  was 
eager  to  get  to  his  work,  a  curious  and  intricate 
piece  of  analysis.  So  the  battered  bureau,  the 
litter  of  papers,  and  the  thick  fume  of  his  pipe, 
engulfed  him  and  absorbed  him  for  the  rest  of 
the  morning.  Outside  were  the  dim  October 
mists,  the  dreary  and  languid  life  of  a  side  street, 
and  beyond,  on  the  main  road,  the  hum  and 
jangle  of  the  gliding  trams.  But  he  heard  none 
of  the  uneasy  noises  of  the  quarter,  not  even  the 
shriek  of  the  garden  gates  nor  the  yelp  of  the 
butcher  on  his  rounds,  for  delight  in  his  great  task 
made  him  unconscious  of  the  world  outside. 

He  had  come  by  curious  paths  to  this  calm 
hermitage  between  Shepherd's  Bush  and  Acton 
Vale.  The  golden  weeks  of  the  summer  passed 
on  in  their  enchanted  procession,  and  Annie  had 
not  returned,  neither  had  she  written.  Lucian, 
on  his  side,  sat  apart,  wondering  why  his  longing 
for  her  were  not  sharper.  As  he  thought  of  his 
raptures  he  would  smile  faintly  to  himself,  and 
wonder  whether  he  had  not  lost  the  world  and 
Annie  with  it.  In  the  garden  of  Avallaunius  his 
sense  of  external  things  had  grown  dim  and  in- 
distinct ;  the  actual,  material  life  seemed  every 
day  to  become  a  show,  a  fleeting  of  shadows 
171 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

across  a  great  white  light.  At  last  the  news  came 
that  Annie  Morgan  had  been  married  from  her 
sister's  house  to  a  young  farmer,  to  whom,  it 
appeared,  she  had  been  long  engaged,  and  Lucian 
was  ashamed  to  find  himself  only  conscious  of 
amusement,  mingled  with  gratitude.  She  had 
been  the  key  that  opened  the  shut  palace,  and  he 
was  now  secure  on  the  throne  of  ivory  and  gold. 
A  few  days  after  he  had  heard  the  news  he  re- 
peated the  adventure  of  his  boyhood  ;  for  the 
second  time  he  scaled  the  steep  hillside,  and  pene- 
trated the  matted  brake.  He  expected  violent 
disillusion,  but  his  feeling  was  rather  astonish- 
ment at  the  activity  of  boyish  imagination.  There 
was  no  terror  nor  amazement  now  in  the  green 
bulwarks,  and  the  stunted  undergrowth  did  not 
seem  in  any  way  extraordinary.  Yet  he  did  not 
laugh  at  the  memory  of  his  sensations,  he  was 
not  angry  at  the  cheat.  Certainly  it  had  all  been 
illusion,  all  the  heats  and  chills  of  boyhood,  its 
thoughts  of  terror  were  without  significance.  But 
he  recognised  that  the  illusions  of  the  child  only 
differed  from  those  of  the  man  in  that  they  were 
more  picturesque ;  belief  in  fairies  and  belief  in  the 
Stock  Exchange  as  bestowers  of  happiness  were 
equally  vain,  but  the  latter  form  of  faith  was  ugly 
172 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

as  well  as  inept.  It  was  better,  he  knew,  and 
wiser,  to  wish  for  a  fairy  coach  than  to  cherish 
longings  for  a  well-appointed  brougham  and 
liveried  servants. 

He  turned  his  back  on  the  green  walls  and  the 
dark  oaks  without  any  feeling  of  regret  or  resent- 
ment. After  a  little  while  he  began  to  think  of 
his  adventures  with  pleasure ;  the  ladder  by  which 
he  had  mounted  had  disappeared,  but  he  was  safe  on 
the  height.  By  the  chance  fancy  of  a  beautiful  girl 
he  had  been  redeemed  from  a  world  of  misery  and 
torture,  the  world  of  external  things  into  which 
he  had  come  a  stranger,  by  which  he  had  been 
tormented.  He  looked  back  at  a  kind  of  vision 
of  himself  seen  as  he  was  a  year  before,  a  pitiable 
creature  burning  and  twisting  on  the  hot  coals  of 
the  pit,  crying  lamentably  to  the  laughing  by- 
standers for  but  one  drop  of  cold  water  wherewith 
to  cool  his  tongue.  He  confessed  to  himself,  with 
some  contempt,  that  he  had  been  a  social  being, 
depending  for  his  happiness  on  the  goodwill  of 
others  ;  he  had  tried  hard  to  write,  chiefly,  it  was 
true,  from  love  of  the  art,  but  a  little  from  a  social 
motive.  He  had  imagined  that  a  written  book 
and  the  praise  of  responsible  journals  would  ensure 
him  the  respect  of  the  county  people.  It  was  a 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

quaint  idea,  and  he  saw  the  lamentable  fallacies 
naked  ;  in  the  first  place,  a  painstaking  artist  in 
words  was  not  respected  by  the  respectable ; 
secondly,  books  should  not  be  written  with  the 
object  of  gaining  the  goodwill  of  the  landed  and 
commercial  interests  ;  thirdly  and  chiefly,  no  man 
should  in  any  way  depend  on  another. 

From  this  utter  darkness,  from  danger  of  mad- 
ness, the  ever  dear  and  sweet  Annie  had  rescued 
him.  Very  beautifully  and  fitly,  as  Lucian  thought, 
she  had  done  her  work  without  any  desire  to 
benefit  him,  she  had  simply  willed  to  gratify  her 
own  passion,  and  in  doing  this  had  handed  to 
him  the  priceless  secret.  And  he,  on  his  side, 
had  reversed  the  process ;  merely  to  make  himself 
a  splendid  offering  for  the  acceptance  of  his 
sweetheart,  he  had  cast  aside  the  vain  world,  and 
had  found  the  truth,  which  now  remained  with 
him,  precious  and  enduring. 

And  since  the  news  of  the  marriage  he  found 
that  his  worship  of  her  had  by  no  means  vanished ; 
rather  in  his  heart  was  the  eternal  treasure  of  a 
happy  love,  untarnished  and  spotless ;  it  would 
be  like  a  mirror  of  gold  without  alloy,  bright  and 
lustrous  for  ever.  For  Lucian,  it  was  no  defect 
in  the  woman  that  she  was  desirous  and  faithless; 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

he  had  not  conceived  an  affection  for  certain 
moral  or  intellectual  accidents,  but  for  the  very 
woman.  Guided  by  the  self-evident  axiom  that 
humanity  is  to  be  judged  by  literature,  and  not 
literature  by  humanity,  he  detected  the  analogy 
between  Lycidas  and  Annie.  Only  the  dullard 
would  object  to  the  nauseous  cant  of  the  one,  or 
to  the  indiscretions  of  the  other.  A  sober  critic 
might  say  that  the  man  who  could  generalise 
Herbert  and  Laud,  Donne  and  Herrick,  Sander- 
son and  Juxon,  Hammond  and  Lancelot  Andrewes 
into  '  our  corrupted  Clergy '  must  be  either  an  im- 
becile or  a  scoundrel,  or  probably  both.  The 
judgment  would  be  perfectly  true,  but  as  a  criti- 
cism of  Lycidas  it  would  be  a  piece  of  folly.  In 
the  case  of  the  woman  one  could  imagine  the 
attitude  of  the  conventional  lover  ;  of  the  cheva- 
lier who,  with  his  tongue  in  his  cheek, '  reverences 
and  respects '  all  women,  and  coming  home  early 
in  the  morning  writes  a  leading  article  on  St.  Eng- 
lish Girl.  Lucian,  on  the  other  hand,  felt  pro- 
foundly grateful  to  the  delicious  Annie,  because 
she  had  at  precisely  the  right  moment  voluntarily 
removed  her  image  from  his  way.  He  confessed 
to  himself  that,  latterly,  he  had  a  little  dreaded 
her  return  as  an  interruption ;  he  had  shivered  at 

'75 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

the  thought  that  their  relations  would  become 
what  was  so  terribly  called  an  '  intrigue '  or 
'affair.'  There  would  be  all  the  threadbare  and 
common  stratagems,  the  vulgarity  of  secret  as- 
signations, and  an  atmosphere  suggesting  the 
period  of  Mr.  Thomas  Moore  and  Lord  Byron 
and  '  segars.'  Lucian  had  been  afraid  of  all  this ; 
he  had  feared  lest  love  itself  should  destroy  love. 
He  considered  that  now,  freed  from  the  torment 
of  the  body,  leaving  untasted  the  green  water 
that  makes  thirst  more  burning,  he  was  perfectly 
initiated  in  the  true  knowledge  of  the  splendid 
and  glorious  love.  There  seemed  to  him  a  mon- 
strous paradox  in  the  assertion  that  there  could 
be  no  true  love  without  a  corporal  presence  of 
the  beloved;  even  the  popular  sayings  of  'absence 
makes  the  heart  grow  fonder,'  and  'familiarity 
breeds  contempt,'  witnessed  to  the  contrary.  He 
thought,  sighing,  and  with  compassion,  of  the 
manner  in  which  men  are  continually  led  astray 
by  the  cheat  of  the  senses.  In  order  that  the 
unborn  might  still  be  added  to  the  born,  nature 
had  inspired  men  with  the  wild  delusion  that  the 
bodily  companionship  of  the  lover  and  the  be- 
loved was  desirable  above  all  things,  and  so,  by 
the  false  show  of  pleasure,  the  human  race  was 
176 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

chained  to  vanity,  and  doomed  to  an  eternal  thirst 
for  the  non-existent. 

Again  and  again  he  gave  thanks  for  his  own 
escape  ;  he  had  been  set  free  from  a  life  of  vice 
and  sin  and  folly,  from  all  the  dangers  and  illu- 
sions that  are  most  dreaded  by  the  wise.  He 
laughed  as  he  remembered  what  would  be  the 
common  view  of  the  situation.  An  ordinary 
lover  would  suffer  all  the  sting  of  sorrow  and 
contempt ;  there  would  be  grief  for  a  lost  mistress, 
and  rage  at  her  faithlessness,  and  hate  in  the 
heart ;  one  foolish  passion  driving  on  another, 
and  driving  the  man  to  ruin.  For  what  would 
be  commonly  called  the  real  woman  he  now 
cared  nothing ;  if  he  had  heard  that  she  had 
died  in  her  farm  in  Utter  Gwent,  he  would  have 
experienced  only  a  passing  sorrow,  such  as  he 
might  feel  at  the  death  of  any  one  he  had  once 
known.  But  he  did  not  think  of  the  young 
farmer's  wife  as  the  real  Annie ;  he  did  not  think 
of  the  frost-bitten  leaves  in  winter  as  the  real 
rose.  Indeed,  the  life  of  many  reminded  him  of 
the  flowers ;  perhaps  more  especially  of  those 
flowers  which  to  all  appearance  are  for  many 
years  but  dull  and  dusty  clumps  cf  green,  and 
suddenly,  in  one  night,  burst  into  the  flame  of 

N  177 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

blossom,  and  fill  all  the  misty  lawns  with  odour: 
till  the  morning.  It  was  in  that  night  that  the 
flower  lived,  not  through  the  long  unprofitable 
years ;  and,  in  like  manner,  many  human  lives, 
he  thought,  were  born  in  the  evening  and  dead 
before  the  coming  of  day.  But  he  had  preserved 
the  precious  flower  in  all  its  glory,  not  suffering 
it  to  wither  in  the  hard  light,  but  keeping  it  in  a 
secret  place,  where  it  could  never  be  destroyed. 
Truly  now,  and  for  the  first  time,  he  possessed 
Annie,  as  a  man  possesses  gold  which  he  has  dug 
from  the  rock  and  purged  of  its  baseness. 

He  was  musing  over  these  things  when  a  piece 
of  news,  very  strange  and  unexpected,  arrived  at 
the  rectory.  A  distant,  almost  a  mythical  relative, 
known  from  childhood  as  '  Cousin  Edward  in  the 
Isle  of  Wight,'  had  died,  and  by  some  strange 
freak  had  left  Lucian  two  thousand  pounds.  It 
was  a  pleasure  to  give  his  father  five  hundred 
pounds,  and  the  rector  on  his  side  forgot  for  a 
couple  of  days  to  lean  his  head  on  his  hand. 
From  the  rest  of  the  capital,  which  was  well 
invested,  Lucian  found  he  would  derive  some- 
thing between  sixty  and  seventy  pounds  a  year, 
and  his  old  desires  for  literature  and  a  refuge  in 
the  murmuring  streets  returned  to  him.  He 
178 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

longed  to  be  free  from  the  incantations  that 
surrounded  him  in  the  country,  to  work  and  live 
in  a  new  atmosphere ;  and  so,  with  many  good 
wishes  from  his  father,  he  came  to  the  retreat  in 
the  waste  places  of  London. 

He  was  in  high  spirits  when  he  found  the 
square,  clean  room,  horribly  furnished,  in  the 
by-street  that  branched  from  the  main  road, 
and  advanced  in  an  unlovely  sweep  to  the  mud 
pits  and  the  desolation  that  was  neither  town  nor 
country.  On  every  side  monotonous  grey  streets, 
each  house  the  replica  of  its  neighbour,  to  the 
east  an  unexplored  wilderness,  north  and  west 
and  south  the  brickfields  and  market-gardens, 
everywhere  the  ruins  of  the  country,  the  tracks 
where  sweet  lanes  had  been,  gangrened  stumps  of 
trees,  the  relics  of  hedges,  here  and  there  an  oak 
stripped  of  its  bark,  white  and  haggard  and 
leprous,  like  a  corpse.  And  the  air  seemed 
always  grey,  and  the  smoke  from  the  brickfields 
was  grey. 

At  first  he  scarcely  realised  the  quarter  into 
which  chance  had  led  him.  His  only  thought 
was  of  the  great  adventure  of  letters  in  which  he 
proposed  to  engage,  and  his  first  glance  round  his 
'  bed-sitting-room  '  showed  him  that  there  was  no 
179 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

piece  of  furniture  suitable  for  his  purpose.  The 
table,  like  the  rest  of  the  suite,  was  of  bird's-eye 
maple  ;  but  the  maker  seemed  to  have  penetrated 
the  druidic  secret  of  the  rocking-stone,  the  thing 
was  in  a  state  of  unstable  equilibrium  perpetually. 
For  some  days  he  wandered  through  the  streets, 
inspecting  the  second-hand  furniture  shops,  and 
at  last,  in  a  forlorn  byway,  found  an  old  Japanese 
bureau,  dishonoured  and  forlorn,  standing  amongst 
rusty  bedsteads,  sorry  china,  and  all  the  refuse  of 
homes  dead  and  desolate.  The  bureau  pleased 
him  in  spite  of  its  grime  and  grease  and  dirt. 
Inlaid  mother-of-pearl,  the  gleam  of  lacquer 
dragons  in  red  gold,  and  hints  of  curious  design 
shone  through  the  film  of  neglect  and  ill-usage, 
and  when  the  woman  of  the  shop  showed  him  the 
drawers  and  well  and  pigeon-holes,  he  saw  that  it 
would  be  an  apt  instrument  for  his  studies. 

The  bureau  was  carried  to  his  room  and 
replaced  the  '  bird's-eye '  table  under  the  gas-jet. 
As  Lucian  arranged  what  papers  he  had  accumu- 
lated :  the  sketches  of  hopeless  experiments, 
shreds  and  tatters  of  stories  begun  but  never 
completed,  outlines  of  plots,  two  or  three  note- 
books scribbled  through  and  through  with  im- 
pressions of  the  abandoned  hills,  he  felt  a  thrill 
180 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

of  exaltation  at  the  prospect  of  work  to  be 
accomplished,  of  a  new  world  all  open  before 
him. 

He  set  out  on  the  adventure  with  a  fury  of 
enthusiasm  ;  his  last  thought  at  night  when  all 
the  maze  of  streets  was  empty  and  silent  was  of 
the  problem,  and  his  dreams  ran  on  phrases,  and 
when  he  awoke  in  the  morning  he  was  eager  to 
get  back  to  his  desk.  He  immersed  himself  in  a 
minute,  almost  a  microscopic  analysis  of  fine 
literature.  It  was  no  longer  enough,  as  in  the 
old  days,  to  feel  the  charm  and  incantation  of  a 
line  or  a  word ;  he  wished  to  penetrate  the  secret, 
to  understand  something  of  the  wonderful  sugges- 
tion, all  apart  from  the  sense,  that  seemed  to  him 
the  differentia  of  literature,  as  distinguished  from 
the  long  follies  of  '  character-drawing,'  '  psycho- 
logical analysis,'  and  all  the  stuff  that  went  to 
make  the  three-volume  novel  of  commerce. 

He  found  himself  curiously  strengthened  by 
the  change  from  the  hills  to  the  streets.  There 
could  be  no  doubt,  he  thought,  that  living  a 
lonely  life,  interested  only  in  himself  and  his  own 
thoughts,  he  had  become  in  a  measure  inhuman. 
The  form  of  external  things,  black  depths  in 
woods,  pools  in  lonely  places,  those  still  valleys 
181 


THE   HILL   OF  DREAMS 

curtained  by  hills  on  every  side,  sounding  always 
with  the  ripple  of  their  brooks,  had  become  to 
him  an  influence  like  that  of  a  drug,  giving  a 
certain  peculiar  colour  and  outline  to  his  thoughts. 
And  from  early  boyhood  there  had  been  another 
strange  flavour  in  his  life,  the  dream  of  the  old 
Roman  world,  those  curious  impressions  that  he 
had  gathered  from  the  white  walls  of  Caermaen, 
and  from  the  looming  bastions  of  the  fort.  It 
was  in  reality  the  subconscious  fancies  of  many 
years  that  had  rebuilt  the  golden  city,  and  had 
shown  him  the  vine-trellis  and  the  marbles  and 
the  sunlight  in  the  garden  of  Avallaunius.  And 
the  rapture  of  love  had  made  it  all  so  vivid  and 
warm  with  life,  that  even  now,  when  he  let  his 
pen  drop,  the  rich  noise  of  the  tavern  and  the 
chant  of  the  theatre  sounded  above  the  murmur 
of  the  streets.  Looking  back,  it  was  as  much  a 
part  of  his  life  as  his  schooldays,  and  the  tessel- 
lated pavements  were  as  real  as  the  square  of 
faded  carpet  beneath  his  feet. 

But  he  felt  that  he  had  escaped.  He  could  now 
survey  those  splendid  and  lovely  visions  from 
without,  as  if  he  read  of  opium  dreams,  and  he 
no  longer  dreaded  a  weird  suggestion  that  had 
once  beset  him,  that  his  very  soul  was  being 
182 


THE   HILL  OF   DREAMS 

moulded  into  the  hills,  and  passing  into  the  black 
mirror  of  still  waterpools.  He  had  taken  refuge 
in  the  streets,  in  the  harbour  of  a  modern  suburb, 
from  the  vague,  dreaded  magic  that  had  charmed 
his  life.  Whenever  he  felt  inclined  to  listen  to 
the  old  wood-whisper  or  to  the  singing  of  the 
fauns  he  bent  more  earnestly  over  his  work, 
turning  a  deaf  ear  to  the  incantation. 

In  the  curious  labour  of  the  bureau  he  found 
refreshment  that  was  continually  renewed.  He 
experienced  again,  and  with  a  far  more  violent 
impulse,  the  enthusiasm  that  had  attended  the 
writing  of  his  book  a  year  or  two  before,  and  so, 
perhaps,  passed  from  one  drug  to  another.  It 
was,  indeed,  with  something  of  rapture  that  he 
imagined  the  great  procession  of  years  all  to  be 
devoted  to  the  intimate  analysis  of  words,  to  the 
construction  of  the  sentence,  as  if  it  were  a  piece 
of  jewellery  or  mosaic. 

Sometimes,  in  the  pauses  of  the  work,  he  would 
pace  up  and  down  his  cell,  looking  out  of  the 
window  now  and  again  and  gazing  for  an  instant 
into  the  melancholy  street.  As  the  year  advanced 
the  days  grew  more  and  more  misty,  and  he 
found  himself  the  inhabitant  of  a  little  island 
wreathed  about  with  the  waves  of  a  white  and 
183 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

solemn  sea.  In  the  afternoon  the  fog  would  grow 
denser,  shutting  out  not  only  sight  but  sound  ; 
the  shriek  of  the  garden  gates,  the  jangling  of  the 
tram-bell  echoed  as  if  from  a  far  way.  Then 
there  were  days  of  heavy  incessant  rain  ;  he  could 
see  a  grey  drifting  sky  and  the  drops  plashing  in 
the  street,  and  the  houses  all  dripping  and  sad- 
dened with  wet. 

He  cured  himself  of  one  great  aversion.  He 
was  no  longer  nauseated  at  the  sight  of  a  story 
begun  and  left  unfinished.  Formerly,  even  when 
an  idea  rose  in  his  mind  bright  and  wonderful,  he 
had  always  approached  the  paper  with  a  feeling 
of  sickness  and  dislike,  remembering  all  the  hope- 
less beginnings  he  had  made.  But  now  he  under- 
stood that  to  begin  a  romance  was  almost  a 
separate  and  special  art,  a  thing  apart  from  the 
story,  to  be  practised  with  sedulous  care.  When- 
ever an  opening  scene  occurred  to  him  he  noted 
it  roughly  in  a  book,  and  he  devoted  many  long 
winter  evenings  to  the  elaboration  of  these  begin- 
nings. Sometimes  the  first  impression  would 
yield  only  a  paragraph  or  a  sentence,  and  once 
or  twice  but  a  splendid  and  sonorous  word, 
which  seemed  to  Lucian  all  dim  and  rich  with 
unsurmised  adventure.  But  often  he  was  able  to 
184 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

write  three  or  four  vivid  pages,  studying  above 
all  things  the  hint  and  significance  of  the  words 
and  actions,  striving  to  work  into  the  lines  the 
atmosphere  of  expectation  and  promise,  and  the 
murmur  of  wonderful  events  to  come. 

In  this  one  department  of  his  task  the  labour 
seemed  almost  endless.  He  would  finish  a  few 
pages  and  then  rewrite  them,  using  the  same 
incident  and  nearly  the  same  words,  but  altering 
that  indefinite  something  which  is  scarcely  so 
much  style  as  manner,  or  atmosphere.  He  was 
astonished  at  the  enormous  change  that  was 
thus  effected,  and  often,  though  he  himself  had 
done  the  work,  he  could  scarcely  describe  in 
words  how  it  was  done.  But  it  was  clear  that  in 
this  art  of  manner,  or  suggestion,  lay  all  the  chief 
secrets  of  literature,  that  by  it  all  the  great 
miracles  were  performed.  Clearly  it  was  not 
style,  for  style  in  itself  was  untranslatable,  but  it 
was  that  high  theurgic  magic  that  made  the 
English  Don  Quixote,  roughly  traduced  by  some 
Jarvis,  perhaps  the  best  of  all  English  books. 
And  it  was  the  same  element  that  made  the 
journey  of  Roderick  Random  to  London,  os- 
tensibly a  narrative  of  coarse  jokes  and  common 
experiences  and  burlesque  manners,  told  in  no 
185 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

very  choice  diction,  essentially  a  wonderful  vision 
of  the  eighteenth  century,  carrying  to  one's  very 
nostrils  the  aroma  of  the  Great  North  Road 
iron-bound  under  black  frost,  darkened  beneath 
shuddering  woods,  haunted  by  highwaymen,  with 
an  adventure  waiting  beyond  every  turn,  and 
great  old  echoing  inns  in  the  midst  of  lonely 
winter  lands. 

It  was  this  magic  that  Lucian  sought  for  his 
opening  chapters  ;  he  tried  to  find  that  quality 
that  gives  to  words  something  beyond  their 
sound  and  beyond  their  meaning,  that  in  the 
first  lines  of  a  book  should  whisper  things  un- 
intelligible but  all  significant.  Often  he  worked 
for  many  hours  without  success,  and  the  grim 
wet  dawn  once  found  him  still  searching  for 
hieroglyphic  sentences,  for  words  mystical,  sym- 
bolic. On  the  shelves,  in  the  upper  part  of  his 
bureau,  he  had  placed  the  books  which,  however 
various  as  to  matter,  seemed  to  have  a  part  in 
this  curious  quality  of  suggestion,  and  in  that 
sphere  which  might  almost  be  called  supernatural. 
To  these  books  he  often  had  recourse,  when 
further  effort  appeared  altogether  hopeless,  and 
certain  pages  in  Coleridge  and  Edgar  Allan  Poe 
had  the  power  of  holding  him  in  a  trance  of 
186 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

delight,  subject  to  emotions  and  impressions 
which  he  knew  to  transcend  altogether  the  realm 
of  the  formal  understanding.  Such  lines  as : 

Bottomless  vales  and  boundless  floods, 
And  chasms,  and  caves,  and  Titan  woods, 
With  forms  that  no  man  can  discover 
For  the  dews  that  drip  all  over ; 

had  for  Lucian  more  than  the  potency  of  a  drug, 
lulling  him  into  a  splendid  waking-sleep,  every 
word  being  a  supreme  incantation.  And  it  was 
not  only  his  mind  that  was  charmed  by  such 
passages,  for  he  felt  at  the  same  time  a  strange 
and  delicious  bodily  languor  that  held  him 
motionless,  without  the  desire  or  power  to  stir 
from  his  seat.  And  there  were  certain  phrases  in 
Kubla  Khan  that  had  such  a  magic  that  he  would 
sometimes  wake  up,  as  it  were,  to  the  consciousness 
that  he  had  been  lying  on  the  bed  or  sitting  in  the 
chair  by  the  bureau,  repeating  a  single  line  over 
and  over  again  for  two  or  three  hours.  Yet  he 
knew  perfectly  well  that  he  had  not  been  really 
asleep ;  a  little  effort  recalled  a  constant  impres- 
sion of  the  wall-paper,  with  its  pink  flowers  on 
a  buff  ground,  and  of  the  muslin-curtained 
window,  letting  in  the  grey  winter  light.  He 
had  been  some  seven  months  in  London  when 
187 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

this  odd  experience  first  occurred  to  him.  The 
day  opened  dreary  and  cold  and  clear,  with  a 
gusty  and  restless  wind  whirling  round  the  corner 
of  the  street,  and  lifting  the  dead  leaves  and 
scraps  of  paper  that  littered  the  roadway  into 
eddying  mounting  circles,  as  if  a  storm  of  black 
rain  were  to  come.  Lucian  had  sat  late  the  night 
before,  and  rose  in  the  morning  feeling  weary  and 
listless  and  heavy-headed.  While  he  dressed, 
his  legs  dragged  him  as  with  weights,  and  he 
staggered  and  nearly  fell  in  bending  down  to  the 
mat  outside  for  his  tea-tray.  He  lit  the  spirit 
lamp  on  the  hearth  with  shaking,  unsteady  hands, 
and  could  scarcely  pour  out  the  tea  when  it  was 
ready.  A  delicate  cup  of  tea  was  one  of  his  few 
luxuries ;  he  was  fond  of  the  strange  flavour  of 
the  green  leaf,  and  this  morning  he  drank  the 
straw-coloured  liquid  eagerly,  hoping  it  would 
disperse  the  cloud  of  languor.  He  tried  his  best 
to  coerce  himself  into  the  sense  of  vigour  and 
enjoyment  with  which  he  usually  began  the  day, 
walking  briskly  up  and  down  and  arranging  his 
papers  in  order.  But  he  could  not  free  himself 
from  depression ;  even  as  he  opened  the  dear 
bureau  a  wave  of  melancholy  came  upon  him, 
and  he  began  to  ask  himself  whether  he  were  not 
1 88 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

pursuing  a  vain  dream,  searching  for  treasures 
that  had  no  existence.  He  drew  out  his  cousin's 
letter  and  read  it  again,  sadly  enough.  After  all, 
there  was  a  good  deal  of  truth  in  what  she  said ; 
he  had  '  overrated '  his  powers,  he  had  no  friends, 
no  real  education.  He  began  to  count  up  the 
months  since  he  had  come  to  London  ;  he  had 
received  his  two  thousand  pounds  in  March,  and 
in  May  he  had  said  good-bye  to  the  woods  and 
to  the  dear  and  friendly  paths.  May,  June,  July, 
August,  September,  October,  November,  and  half 
of  December  had  gone  by,  and  what  had  he  to 
show  ?  Nothing  but  the  experiment,  the  attempt, 
futile  scribblings  which  had  no  end  nor  shining 
purpose.  There  was  nothing  in  his  desk  that  he 
could  produce  as  evidence  of  his  capacity,  no 
fragment  even  of  accomplishment.  It  was  a 
thought  of  intense  bitterness,  but  it  seemed  as 
if  the  barbarians  were  in  the  right — a  place  in 
a  house  of  business  would  have  been  more  suit- 
able. He  leaned  his  head  on  his  desk  over- 
whelmed with  the  severity  of  his  own  judgment. 
He  tried  to  comfort  himself  again  by  the  thought 
of  all  the  hours  of  happy  enthusiasm  he  had 
spent  amongst  his  papers,  working  for  a  great 
idea  with  infinite  patience.  He  recalled  to  mind 
189 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

something  that  he  had  always  tried  to  keep  in  the 
background  of  his  hopes,  the  foundation  stone  of 
his  life,  which  he  had  hidden  out  of  sight.  Deep 
in  his  heart  was  the  hope  that  he  might  one  day 
write  a  valiant  book  ;  he  scarcely  dared  to  enter- 
tain the  aspiration,  he  felt  his  incapacity  too 
deeply,  but  yet  this  longing  was  the  foundation 
of  all  his  painful  and  patient  effort.  This  he  had 
proposed  in  secret  to  himself,  that  if  he  laboured 
without  ceasing,  without  tiring,  he  might  produce 
something  which  would  at  all  events  be  art, 
which  would  stand  wholly  apart  from  the  objects 
shaped  like  books,  printed  with  printers'  ink,  and 
called  by  the  name  of  books  that  he  had  read. 
Giotto,  he  knew,  was  a  painter,  and  the  man  who 
imitated  walnut-wood  on  the  deal  doors  opposite 
was  a  painter,  and  he  had  wished  to  be  a  very 
humble  pupil  in  the  class  of  the  former.  It  was 
better,  he  thought,  to  fail  in  attempting  exquisite 
things  than  to  succeed  in  the  department  of  the 
utterly  contemptible  ;  he  had  vowed  he  would  be 
the  dunce  of  Cervantes's  school  rather  than  top- 
boy  in  the  academy  of  A  Bad  Un  to  Beat  and 
Millicenfs  Marriage.  And  with  this  purpose  he 
had  devoted  himself  to  laborious  and  joyous 
years,  so  that  however  mean  his  capacity,  the 
190 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

pains  should  not  be  wanting.  He  tried  now  to 
rouse  himself  from  a  growing  misery  by  the 
recollection  of  this  high  aim,  but  it  all  seemed 
hopeless  vanity.  He  looked  out  into  the  grey 
street,  and  it  stood  a  symbol  of  his  life,  chill  and 
dreary  and  grey  and  vexed  with  a  horrible  wind. 
There  were  the  dull  inhabitants  of  the  quarter 
going  about  their  common  business ;  a  man  was 
crying  '  mackerel '  in  a  doleful  voice,  slowly  pass- 
ing up  the  street,  and  staring  into  the  white- 
curtained  '  parlours,'  searching  for  the  face  of  a 
purchaser  behind  the  india-rubber  plants,  stuffed 
birds,  and  piles  of  gaudy  gilt  books  that  adorned 
the  windows.  One  of  the  blistered  doors  over 
the  way  banged,  and  a  woman  came  scurrying 
out  on  some  errand,  and  the  garden  gate  shrieked 
two  melancholy  notes  as  she  opened  it  and  let  it 
swing  back  after  her,  The  little  patches  called 
gardens  were  mostly  untilled,  uncared  for,  squares 
of  slimy  moss,  dotted  with  clumps  of  coarse  ugly 
grass,  but  here  and  there  were  the  blackened  and 
rotting  remains  of  sunflowers  and  marigolds. 
And  beyond,  he  knew,  stretched  the  labyrinth  of 
streets  more  or  less  squalid,  but  all  grey  and 
dull,  and  behind  were  the  mud  pits  and  the 
steaming  heaps  of  yellowish  bricks,  and  to  the 
191 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

north  was  a  great  wide  cold  waste,  treeless, 
desolate,  swept  by  bitter  wind.  It  was  all  like 
his  own  life,  he  said  again  to  himself,  a  maze  of 
unprofitable  dreariness  and  desolation,  and  his 
mind  grew  as  black  and  hopeless  as  the  winter 
sky.  The  morning  went  thus  dismally  till  twelve 
o'clock,  and  he  put  on  his  hat  and  great-coat.  He 
always  went  out  for  an  hour  every  day  between 
twelve  and  one  ;  the  exercise  was  a  necessity,  and 
the  landlady  made  his  bed  in  the  interval.  The 
wind  blew  the  smoke  from  the  chimneys  into  uis 
face  as  he  shut  the  door,  and  with  the  acrid 
smoke  came  the  prevailing  odour  of  the  street, 
a  blend  of  cabbage-water  and  burnt  bones  and 
the  faint  sickly  vapour  from  the  brickfields. 
Lucian  walked  mechanically  for  the  hour,  going 
eastward,  along  the  main  road.  The  wind  pierced 
him,  and  the  dust  was  blinding,  and  the  dreari- 
ness of  the  street  increased  his  misery.  The  row 
of  common  shops,  full  of  common  things,  the 
blatant  public-houses,  the  Independent  chapel,  a 
horrible  stucco  parody  of  a  Greek  temple  with 
a  facade  of  hideous  columns  that  was  a  nightmare, 
villas  like  smug  Pharisees,  shops  again,  a  church 
in  cheap  Gothic,  an  old  garden  blasted  and  riven 
by  the  builder,  these  were  the  pictures  of  the 
192 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

way.  When  he  got  home  again  he  flung  him- 
self on  the  bed,  and  lay  there  stupidly  till  sheer 
hunger  roused  him.  He  ate  a  hunch  of  bread 
and  drank  some  water,  and  began  to  pace  up  and 
down  the  room,  wondering  whether  there  were  no 
escape  from  despair.  Writing  seemed  quite  im- 
possible, and  hardly  knowing  what  he  did  he 
opened  his  bureau  and  took  out  a  book  from  the 
shelves.  As  his  eyes  fell  on  the  page  the  air 
grew  dark  and  heavy  as  night,  and  the  wind 
wailed  suddenly,  loudly,  terribly. 

'  By  woman  wailing  for  her  Demon  lover.'  The 
words  were  on  his  lips  when  he  raised  his  eyes 
again.  A  broad  band  of  pale  clear  light  was 
shining  into  the  room,  and  when  he  looked  out 
of  the  window  he  saw  the  road  all  brightened  by 
glittering  pools  of  water,  and  as  the  last  drops 
of  the  rain-storm  starred  these  mirrors  the  sun 
sank  into  the  wrack.  Lucian  gazed  about  him, 
perplexed,  till  his  eyes  fell  on  the  clock  above 
his  empty  hearth.  He  had  been  sitting,  motion- 
less, for  nearly  two  hours  without  any  sense  of 
the  passage  of  time,  and  without  ceasing  he  had 
murmured  those  words  as  he  dreamed  an  endless 
wonderful  story.  He  experienced  somewhat  the 
sensations  of  Coleridge  himself;  strange,  amazing, 
o  193 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

ineffable  things  seemed  to  have  been  presented 
to  him,  not  in  the  form  of  the  idea,  but  actually 
and  materially,  but  he  was  less  fortunate  than 
Coleridge  in  that  he  could  not,  even  vaguely, 
image  to  himself  what  he  had  seen.  Yet  when 
he  searched  his  mind  he  knew  that  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  room  in  which  he  sat  had  never  left 
him ;  he  had  seen  the  thick  darkness  gather,  and 
had  heard  the  whirl  of  rain  hissing  through  the 
air.  Windows  had  been  shut  down  with  a  crash, 
he  had  noted  the  pattering  footsteps  of  people 
running  to  shelter,  the  landlady's  voice  crying  to 
some  one  to  look  at  the  rain  coming  in  under  the 
door.  It  was  like  peering  into  some  old  bitu- 
minous picture,  one  could  see  at  last  that  the 
mere  blackness  resolved  itself  into  the  likeness 
of  trees  and  rocks  and  travellers.  And  against 
this  background  of  his  room,  and  the  storm,  and 
the  noises  of  the  street,  his  vision  stood  out  illu- 
minated, he  felt  he  had  descended  to  the  very 
depths,  into  the  caverns  that  are  hollowed  beneath 
the  soul.  He  tried  vainly  to  record  the  history 
of  his  impressions ;  the  symbols  remained  in  his 
memory,  but  the  meaning  was  all  conjecture. 

The  next  morning,  when  he  awoke,  he  could 
scarcely  understand  or  realise  the  bitter  depression 
194 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

of  the  preceding  day.  He  found  it  had  all  vanished 
away  and  had  been  succeeded  by  an  intense  ex- 
altation. Afterwards,  when  at  rare  intervals  he 
experienced  the  same  strange  possession  of  the 
consciousness,  he  found  this  to  be  the  invariable 
result,  the  hour  of  vision  was  always  succeeded 
by  a  feeling  of  delight,  by  sensations  of  heightened 
and  intensified  powers.  On  that  bright  December 
day  after  the  storm  he  rose  joyously,  and  set 
about  the  labour  of  the  bureau  with  the  assurance 
of  success,  almost  with  the  hope  of  formidable 
difficulties  to  be  overcome.  He  had  long  busied 
himself  with  those  curious  researches  which  Poe 
has  indicated  in  the  Philosophy  of  Composition, 
and  many  hours  had  been  spent  in  analysing  the 
singular  effects  which  may  be  produced  by  the 
sound  and  resonance  of  words.  But  he  had  been 
struck  by  the  thought  that  in  the  finest  literature 
there  were  more  subtle  tones  than  the  loud  and 
insistent  music  of  'never  more,'  and  he  en- 
deavoured to  find  the  secret  of  those  pages  and 
sentences  which  spoke,  less  directly,  and  less 
obviously,  to  the  soul  rather  than  to  the  ear, 
being  filled  with  a  certain  grave  melody  and  the 
sensation  of  singing  voices.  It  was  admirable, 
no  doubt,  to  write  phrases  that  showed  at  a  glance 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

their  designed  rhythm,  and  rang  with  sonorous 
words,  but  he  dreamed  of  a  prose  in  which  the 
music  should  be  less  explicit,  of  neumes  rather 
than  notes.  He  was  astonished  that  morning  at 
his  own  fortune  and  facility ;  he  succeeded  in 
covering  a  page  of  ruled  paper  wholly  to  his 
satisfaction,  and  the  sentences,  when  he  read 
them  out,  appeared  to  suggest  a  weird  elusive 
chanting,  exquisite  but  almost  imperceptible,  like 
the  echo  of  the  plainsong  reverberated  from  the 
vault  of  a  monastic  church. 

He  thought  that  such  happy  mornings  well 
repaid  him  for  the  anguish  of  depression  which 
he  sometimes  had  to  suffer,  and  for  the  strange 
experience  of '  possession '  recurring  at  rare  inter- 
vals, and  usually  after  many  weeks  of  severe  diet. 
His  income,  he  found,  amounted  to  about  sixty- 
five  pounds  a  year,  and  he  lived  for  weeks  at  a 
time  on  fifteen  shillings  a  week.  During  these 
austere  periods  his  only  food  was  bread,  at  the 
rate  of  a  loaf  a  day ;  but  he  drank  huge  draughts 
of  green  tea,  and  smoked  a  black  tobacco,  which 
seemed  to  him  a  more  potent  mother  of  thought 
than  any  drug  from  the  scented  East.  '  I  hope 
you  go  to  some  nice  place  for  dinner,'  wrote  his 
cousin ;  '  there  used  to  be  some  excellent  eating- 
196 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

houses  in  London  where  one  could  get  a  good 
cut  from  the  joint,  with  plenty  of  gravy,  and  a 
boiled  potato,  for  a  shilling.  Aunt  Mary  writes 
that  you  should  try  Mr.  Jones's  in  Water  Street, 
Islington,  whose  father  came  from  near  Caer- 
maen,  and  was  always  most  comfortable  in  her 
day.  I  daresay  the  walk  there  would  do  you 
good.  It  is  such  a  pity  you  smoke  that  horrid 
tobacco.  I  had  a  letter  from  Mrs.  Dolly  (Jane 
Diggs,  who  married  your  cousin  John  Dolly)  the 
other  day,  and  she  said  they  would  have  been 
delighted  to  take  you  for  only  twenty-five  shillings 
a  week  for  the  sake  of  the  family  if  you  had  not 
been  a  smoker.  She  told  me  to  ask  you  if  you 
had  ever  seen  a  horse  or  a  dog  smoking  tobacco. 
They  are  such  nice,  comfortable  people,  and  the 
children  would  have  been  company  for  you. 
Johnnie,  who  used  to  be  such  a  dear  little  fellow, 
has  just  gone  into  an  office  in  the  City,  and  seems 
to  have  excellent  prospects.  How  I  wish,  my 
dear  Lucian,  that  you  could  do  something  in  the 
same  way.  Don't  forget  Mr.  Jones's  in  Water 
Street,  and  you  might  mention  your  name  to 
him.' 

Lucian  never  troubled  Mr.  Jones ;  but   these 
letters  of  his  cousin's  always  refreshed  him  by 
197 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

the  force  of  contrast.  He  tried  to  imagine  him- 
self a  part  of  the  Dolly  family,  going  dutifully 
every  morning  to  the  City  on  the  bus,  and  return- 
ing in  the  evening  for  high  tea.  He  could  con- 
ceive the  fine  odour  of  hot  roast  beef  hanging 
about  the  decorous  house  on  Sunday  afternoons, 
papa  asleep  in  the  dining-room,  mamma  lying 
down,  and  the  children  quite  good  and  happy 
with  their  '  Sunday  books.'  In  the  evening,  after 
supper,  one  read  the  Quiver  till  bedtime.  Such 
pictures  as  these  were  to  Lucian  a  comfort  and 
a  help,  a  remedy  against  despair.  Often  when  he 
felt  overwhelmed  by  the  difficulty  of  the  work  he 
had  undertaken,  he  thought  of  the  alternative 
career,  and  was  strengthened. 

He  returned  again  and  again  to  that  desire  of 
a  prose  which  should  sound  faintly,  not  so  much 
with  an  audible  music,  but  with  the  memory  and 
echo  of  it.  In  the  night,  when  the  last  tram  had 
gone  jangling  by,  and  he  had  looked  out  and  seen 
the  street  all  wrapped  about  in  heavy  folds  of  the 
mist,  he  conducted  some  of  his  most  delicate 
experiments.  In  that  white  and  solitary  midnight 
of  the  suburban  street  he  experienced  the  curious 
sense  of  being  on  a  tower,  remote  and  apart  and 
high  above  all  the  troubles  of  the  earth.  The 
198 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

gas  lamp,  which  was  nearly  opposite,  shone  in 
a  pale  halo  of  light,  and  the  houses  themselves 
were  merely  indistinct  marks  and  shadows  amidst 
that  palpable  whiteness,  shutting  out  the  world 
and  its  noises.  The  knowledge  of  the  swarming 
life  that  was  so  still,  though  it  surrounded  him, 
made  the  silence  seem  deeper  than  that  of  the 
mountains  before  the  dawn  ;  it  was  as  if  he  alone 
stirred  and  looked  out  amidst  a  host  sleeping  at 
his  feet.  The  fog  came  in  by  the  open  window  in 
freezing  puffs,  and  as  Lucian  watched  he  noticed 
that  it  shook  and  wavered  like  the  sea,  tossing  up 
wreaths  and  drifts  across  the  pale  halo  of  the 
lamp,  and  these  vanishing,  others  succeeded.  It 
was  as  if  the  mist  passed  by  from  the  river  to  the 
north,  as  if  it  still  passed  by  in  the  silence. 

He  would  shut  his  window  gently,  and  sit  down 
in  his  lighted  room  with  all  the  consciousness  of 
the  white  advancing  shroud  upon  him.  It  was 
then  that  he  found  himself  in  the  mood  for 
curious  labours,  and  able  to  handle  with  some 
touch  of  confidence  the  more  exquisite  instru- 
ments of  the  craft.  He  sought  for  that  magic  by 
which  all  the  glory  and  glamour  of  mystic 
chivalry  were  made  to  shine  through  the  burlesque 
and  gross  adventures  of  Don  Quixote,  by  which 
199 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

Hawthorne  had  lit  his  infernal  Sabbath  fires,  and 
fashioned  a  burning  aureole  about  the  village 
tragedy  of  the  Scarlet  Letter.  In  Hawthorne  the 
story  and  the  suggestion,  though  quite  distinct 
and  of  different  worlds,  were  rather  parallel  than 
opposed  to  one  another  ;  but  Cervantes  had  done 
a  stranger  thing.  One  read  of  Don  Quixote, 
beaten,  dirty,  and  ridiculous,  mistaking  windmills 
for  giants,  sheep  for  an  army  ;  but  the  impression 
was  of  the  enchanted  forest,  of  Avalon,  of  the 
San  Graal,  '  far  in  the  spiritual  city.'  And 
Rabelais  showed  him,  beneath  the  letter,  the 
Tourainian  sun  shining  on  the  hot  rock  above 
Chinon,  on  the  maze  of  narrow,  climbing  streets, 
on  the  high-pitched,  gabled  roofs,  on  the  grey- 
blue  tourelles,  pricking  upward  from  the  fantas- 
tic labyrinth  of  walls.  He  heard  the  sound  of 
sonorous  plainsong  from  the  monastic  choir,  of 
gross  exuberant  gaiety  from  the  rich  vineyards ; 
he  listened  to  the  eternal  mystic  mirth  of  those 
that  halted  in  the  purple  shadow  of  the  sorbier  by 
the  white,  steep  road.  The  gracious  and  ornate 
chateaux  on  the  Loire  and  the  Vienne  rose  fair 
and  shining  to  confront  the  incredible  secrets  of 
vast,  dim,  far-lifted  Gothic  naves,  that  seemed 
ready  to  take  the  great  deep,  and  float  away  from 
200 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

the  mist  and  dust  of  earthly  streets  to  anchor  in 
the  haven  of  the  clear  city  that  hath  foundations. 
The  rank  tale  of  the  garde-robe,  of  the  farm- 
kitchen,  mingled  with  the  reasoned,  endless  legend 
of  the  schools,  with  luminous  Platonic  argument ; 
the  old  pomp  of  the  Middle  Ages  put  on  the  robe 
of  a  fresh  life.  There  was  a  smell  of  wine  and  of 
incense,  of  June  meadows  and  of  ancient  books, 
and  through  it  all  he  hearkened,  intent,  to  the 
exultation  of  chiming  bells  ringing  for  a  new 
feast  in  a  new  land.  He  would  cover  pages  with 
the  analysis  of  these  marvels,  tracking  the  sug- 
gestion concealed  beneath  the  words,  and  yet 
glowing  like  the  golden  threads  in  a  robe  of 
samite,  or  like  that  device  of  the  old  binders  by 
which  a  vivid  picture  appeared  on  the  shut  edges 
of  a  book.  He  tried  to  imitate  this  art,  to 
summon  even  the  faint  shadow  of  the  great  effect, 
rewriting  a  page  of  Hawthorne,  experimenting 
and  changing  an  epithet  here  and  there,  noting 
how  sometimes  the  alteration  of  a  trifling  word 
would  plunge  a  whole  scene  into  darkness,  as  if 
one  of  those  blood-red  fires  had  instantly  been 
extinguished.  Sometimes,  for  severe  practice,  he 
attempted  to  construct  short  tales  in  the  manner 
of  this  or  that  master.  He  sighed  over  these 
201 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

desperate  attempts,  over  the  clattering  pieces  of 
mechanism  which  would  not  even  simulate  life  ; 
but  he  urged  himself  to  an  infinite  perseverance. 
Through  the  white  hours  he  worked  on  amidst 
the  heap  and  litter  of  papers ;  books  and  manu- 
scripts overflowed  from  the  bureau  to  the  floor ; 
and  if  he  looked  out  he  saw  the  mist  still  pass  by, 
still  passing  from  the  river  to  the  north. 

It  was  not  till  the  winter  was  well  advanced 
that  he  began  at  all  to  explore  the  region  in 
which  he  lived.  Soon  after  his  arrival  in  the  grey 
street  he  had  taken  one  or  two  vague  walks, 
hardly  noticing  where  he  went  or  what  he  saw ; 
but  for  all  the  summer  he  had  shut  himself  in  his 
room,  beholding  nothing  but  the  form  and  colour 
of  words.  For  his  morning  walk  he  almost  in- 
variably chose  the  one  direction,  going  along  the 
Uxbridge  Road  towards  Netting  Hill,  and  return- 
ing by  the  same  monotonous  thoroughfare.  Now, 
however,  when  the  new  year  was  beginning  its 
dull  days,  he  began  to  diverge  occasionally  to 
right  and  left,  sometimes  eating  his  luncheon  in 
odd  corners,  in  the  bulging  parlours  of  eighteenth- 
century  taverns,  that  still  fronted  the  surging  sea 
of  modern  streets,  or  perhaps  in  brand  new 
'  publics  '  on  the  broken  borders  of  the  brick- 

202 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

fields,  smelling  of  the  clay  from  which  they  had 
swollen.  He  found  waste  by-places  behind  rail- 
way embankments  where  he  could  smoke  his  pipe 
sheltered  from  the  wind  ;  sometimes  there  was  a 
wooden  fence  by  an  old  pear-orchard  where  he 
sat  and  gazed  at  the  wet  desolation  of  the  market- 
gardens,  munching  a  few  currant  biscuits  by  way 
of  dinner.  As  he  went  farther  afield  a  sense  of 
immensity  slowly  grew  upon  him ;  it  was  as  if, 
from  the  little  island  of  his  room,  that  one  friendly 
place,  he  pushed  out  into  the  grey  unknown,  into 
a  city  that  for  him  was  uninhabited  as  the  desert. 
He  came  back  to  his  cell  after  these  purpose- 
less wanderings  always  with  a  sense  of  relief,  with 
the  thought  of  taking  refuge  from  grey.  As  he 
lit  the  gas  and  opened  the  desk  of  his  bureau  and 
saw  the  pile  of  papers  awaiting  him,  it  was  as  if 
he  had  passed  from  the  black  skies  and  the  sting- 
ing wind  and  the  dull  maze  of  the  suburb  into  all 
the  warmth  and  sunlight  and  violent  colour  of  the 
south. 


203 


VI 


IT  was  in  this  winter  after  his  coming  to  the  grey 
street  that  Lucian  first  experienced  the  pains  of 
desolation.  He  had  all  his  life  known  the  delights 
of  solitude,  and  had  acquired  that  habit  of  mind 
which  makes  a  man  find  rich  company  on  the 
bare  hillside  and  leads  him  into  the  heart  of  the 
wood  to  meditate  by  the  dark  waterpools.  But 
now  in  the  blank  interval  when  he  was  forced  to 
shut  up  his  desk,  the  sense  of  loneliness  over- 
whelmed him  and  filled  him  with  unutterable 
melancholy.  On  such  days  he  carried  about  with 
him  an  unceasing  gnawing  torment  in  his  breast; 
the  anguish  of  the  empty  page  awaiting  him  in 
his  bureau,  and  the  knowledge  that  it  was  worse 
than  useless  to  attempt  the  work.  He  had  fallen 
into  the  habit  of  always  using  this  phrase  'the 
work '  to  denote  the  adventure  of  literature ;  it 
had  grown  in  his  mind  to  all  the  austere  and 
grave  significance  of  '  the  great  work '  on  the  lips 
of  the  alchemists ;  it  included  every  trifling  and 
204 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

laborious  page  and  the  vague  magnificent  fancies 
that  sometimes  hovered  before  him.  All  else  had 
become  mere  by-play,  unimportant,  trivial ;  the 
work  was  the  end,  and  the  means  and  the  food  of 
his  life — it  raised  him  up  in  the  morning  to  renew 
the  struggle,  it  was  the  symbol  which  charmed 
him  as  he  lay  down  at  night.  All  through  the  hours 
of  toil  at  the  bureau  he  was  enchanted,  and  when 
he  went  out  and  explored  the  unknown  coasts, 
the  one  thought  allured  him,  and  was  the  coloured 
glass  between  his  eyes  and  the  world.  Then  as 
he  drew  nearer  home  his  steps  would  quicken, 
and  the  more  weary  and  grey  the  walk,  the  more 
he  rejoiced  as  he  thought  of  his  hermitage  and  of 
the  curious  difficulties  that  awaited  him  there. 
But  when,  suddenly  and  without  warning,  the 
faculty  disappeared,  when  his  mind  seemed  a 
hopeless  waste  from  which  nothing  could  arise, 
then  he  became  subject  to  a  misery  so  piteous 
that  the  barbarians  themselves  would  have  been 
sorry  for  him.  He  had  known  some  foretaste  of 
these  bitter  and  inexpressible  griefs  in  the  old 
country  days,  but  then  he  had  immediately  taken 
refuge  in  the  hills,  he  had  rushed  to  the  dark 
woods  as  to  an  anodyne,  letting  his  heart  drink  in 
all  the  wonder  and  magic  of  the  wild  land.  Now 
205 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

in  these  days  of  January,  in  the  suburban  street, 
there  was  no  such  refuge. 

He  had  been  working  steadily  for  some  weeks, 
well  enough  satisfied  on  the  whole  with  the  daily 
progress,  glad  to  awake  in  the  morning,  and  to 
read  over  what  he  had  written  on  the  night 
before.  The  new  year  opened  with  faint  and 
heavy  weather  and  a  breathless  silence  in  the  air, 
but  in  a  few  days  the  great  frost  set  in.  Soon  the 
streets  began  to  suggest  the  appearance  of  a 
beleaguered  city,  the  silence  that  had  preceded 
the  frost  deepened,  and  the  mist  hung  over  the 
earth  like  a  dense  white  smoke.  Night  after 
night  the  cold  increased,  and  people  seemed  un- 
willing to  go  abroad,  till  even  the  main  thorough- 
fares were  empty  and  deserted,  as  if  the  inhabi- 
tants were  lying  close  in  hiding.  It  was  at  this 
dismal  time  that  Lucian  found  himself  reduced  to 
impotence.  There  was  a  sudden  break  in  his 
thought,  and  when  he  wrote  on  valiantly,  hoping 
against  hope,  he  only  grew  more  aghast  on  the 
discovery  of  the  imbecilities  he  had  committed  to 
paper.  He  ground  his  teeth  together  and  per- 
severed, sick  at  heart,  feeling  as  if  all  the  world 
were  fallen  from  under  his  feet,  driving  his  pen  on 
mechanically,  till  he  was  overwhelmed.  He  saw 
206 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

the  stuff  he  had  done  without  veil  or  possible 
concealment,  a  lamentable  and  wretched  sheaf  of 
verbiage,  worse,  it  seemed,  than  the  efforts  of  his 
boyhood.  He  was  no  longer  tautological,  he 
avoided  tautology  with  the  infernal  art  of  a 
leader-writer,  filling  his  wind  bags  and  mincing 
his  words  as  if  he  had  been  a  trained  journalist 
on  the  staff  of  the  Daily  Post.  There  seemed  all 
the  matter  of  an  insufferable  tragedy  in  these 
thoughts ;  that  his  patient  and  enduring  toil  was 
in  vain,  that  practice  went  for  nothing,  and  that 
he  had  wasted  the  labour  of  Milton  to  accomplish 
the  tenth-rate.  Unhappily  he  could  not  'give  in'; 
the  longing,  the  fury  for  the  work  burnt  within 
him  like  a  burning  fire;  he  lifted  up  his  eyes  in 
despair. 

It  was  then,  while  he  knew  that  no  one  could 
help  him,  that  he  languished  for  help,  and  then, 
though  he  was  aware  that  no  comfort  was  pos- 
sible, he  fervently  wished  to  be  comforted.  The 
only  friend  he  had  was  his  father,  and  he  knew 
that  his  father  would  not  even  understand  his  dis- 
tress. For  him,  always,  the  printed  book  was  the 
beginning  and  end  of  literature  ;  the  agony  of 
the  maker,  his  despair  and  sickness,  were  as 
accursed  as  the  pains  of  labour.  He  was  ready 
207 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

to  read  and  admire  the  work  of  the  great  Smith, 
but  he  did  not  wish  to  hear  of  the  period  when 
the  great  Smith  had  writhed  and  twisted  like  a 
scotched  worm,  only  hoping  to  be  put  out  of  his 
misery,  to  go  mad  or  die,  to  escape  somehow 
from  the  bitter  pains.  And  Lucian  knew  no  one 
else.  Now  and  then  he  read  in  the  paper  the 
fame  of  the  great  litterateurs;  the  Gypsies  were 
entertaining  the  Prince  of  Wales,  the  Jolly  Beg- 
gars were  dining  with  the  Lord  Mayor,  the  Old 
Mumpers  were  mingling  amicably  and  gorgeously 
with  the  leading  members  of  the  Stock  Ex- 
change. He  was  so  unfortunate  as  to  know  none 
of  these  gentlemen,  but  it  hardly  seemed  likely 
that  they  could  have  done  much  for  him  in  any 
case.  Indeed,  in  his  heart,  he  was  certain  that 
help  and  comfort  from  without  were  in  the  nature 
of  things  utterly  impossible,  his  ruin  and  grief 
were  within,  and  only  his  own  assistance  could 
avail.  He  tried  to  reassure  himself,  to  believe 
that  his  torments  were  a  proof  of  his  vocation, 
that  the  facility  of  the  novelist  who  stood  six 
years  deep  in  contracts  to  produce  romances  was 
a  thing  wholly  undesirable,  but  all  the  while  he 
longed  for  but  a  drop  of  that  inexhaustible 
fluency  which  he  professed  to  despise. 
208 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

He  drove  himself  out  from  that  dreary  con- 
templation of  the  white  paper  and  the  idle  pen. 
He  went  into  the  frozen  and  deserted  streets, 
hoping  that  he  might  pluck  the  burning  coal  from 
his  heart,  but  the  fire  was  not  quenched.  As  he 
walked  furiously  along  the  grim  iron  roads  he 
fancied  that  those  persons  who  passed  him  cheer- 
fully on  their  way  to  friends  and  friendly  hearths 
shrank  from  him  into  the  mist  as  they  went  by. 
Lucian  imagined  that  the  fire  of  his  torment  and 
anguish  must  in  some  way  glow  visibly  about 
him ;  he  moved,  perhaps,  in  a  nimbus  that  pro- 
claimed the  blackness  and  the  flames  within.  He 
knew,  of  course,  that  in  misery  he  had  grown 
delirious,  that  the  well-coated,  smooth-hatted  per- 
sonages who  loomed  out  of  the  fog  upon  him 
were  in  reality  shuddering  only  with  cold,  but  in 
spite  of  common  sense  he  still  conceived  that  he 
saw  on  their  faces  an  evident  horror  and  disgust, 
and  something  of  the  repugnance  that  one  feels 
at  the  sight  of  a  venomous  snake,  half-killed, 
trailing  its  bleeding  vileness  out  of  sight.  By 
design  Lucian  tried  to  make  for  remote  and 
desolate  places,  and  yet  when  he  had  succeeded 
in  touching  on  the  open  country,  and  knew  that 
the  icy  shadow  hovering  through  the  mist  was  a 
p  209 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

field,  he  longed  for  some  sound  and  murmur  of 
life,  and  turned  again  to  roads  where  pale  lamps 
were  glimmering,  and  the  dancing  flame  of  fire- 
light shone  across  the  frozen  shrubs.  And  the 
sight  of  these  homely  fires,  the  thought  of  affec- 
tion and  consolation  waiting  by  them,  stung  him 
the  more  sharply  perhaps  because  of  the  contrast 
with  his  own  chills  and  weariness  and  helpless 
sickness,  and  chiefly  because  he  knew  that  he  had 
long  closed  an  everlasting  door  between  his  heart 
and  such  felicities.  If  those  within  had  come  out 
and  had  called  him  by  his  name  to  enter  and  be 
comforted,  it  would  have  been  quite  unavailing, 
since  between  them  and  him  there  was  a  great 
gulf  fixed.  Perhaps  for  the  first  time  he  realised 
that  he  had  lost  the  art  of  humanity  for  ever. 
He  had  thought  when  he  closed  his  ears  to  the 
wood  whisper  and  changed  the  fauns'  singing  for 
the  murmur  of  the  streets,  the  black  pools  for  the 
shadows  and  amber  light  of  London,  that  he  had 
put  off  the  old  life,  and  had  turned  his  soul  to 
healthy  activities,  but  the  truth  was  that  he  had 
merely  exchanged  one  drug  for  another.  He  could 
not  be  human,  and  he  wondered  whether  there 
were  some  drop  of  the  fairy  blood  in  his  body  that 
made  him  foreign  and  a  stranger  in  the  world. 
210 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

He  did  not  surrender  to  desolation  without  re- 
peated struggles.  He  strove  to  allure  himself  to 
his  desk  by  the  promise  of  some  easy  task;  he 
would  not  attempt  invention,  but  he  had 
memoranda  and  rough  jottings  of  ideas  in  his 
note-books,  and  he  would  merely  amplify  the 
suggestions  ready  to  his  hand.  But  it  was  hope- 
less, again  and  again  it  was  hopeless.  As  he  read 
over  his  notes,  trusting  that  he  would  find  some 
hint  that  might  light  up  the  dead  fires,  and  kindle 
again  that  pure  flame  of  enthusiasm,  he  found 
how  desperately  his  fortune  had  fallen.  He  could 
see  no  light,  no  colour  in  the  lines  he  had  scrib- 
bled with  eager  trembling  fingers ;  he  remem- 
bered how  splendid  all  these  things  had  been 
when  he  wrote  them  down,  but  now  they  were 
meaningless,  faded  into  grey.  The  few  words  he 
had  dashed  on  to  the  paper,  enraptured  at  the 
thought  of  the  happy  hours  they  promised,  had 
become  mere  jargon,  and  when  he  understood  the 
idea  it  seemed  foolish,  dull,  unoriginal.  He  dis- 
covered something  at  last  that  appeared  to  have 
a  grain  of  promise,  and  determined  to  do  his  best 
to  put  it  into  shape,  but  the  first  paragraph 
appalled  him  ;  it  might  have  been  written  by  an 
unintelligent  schoolboy.  He  tore  the  paper  in 

211 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

pieces,  and  shut  and  locked  his  desk,  heavy 
despair  sinking  like  lead  into  his  heart.  For  the 
rest  of  that  day  he  lay  motionless  on  the  bed, 
smoking  pipe  after  pipe  in  the  hope  of  stupefying 
himself  with  tobacco  fumes.  The  air  in  the  room 
became  blue  and  thick  with  smoke ;  it  was 
bitterly  cold,  and  he  wrapped  himself  up  in  his 
great-coat  and  drew  the  counterpane  over  him. 
The  night  came  on  and  the  window  darkened, 
and  at  last  he  fell  asleep. 

He  renewed  the  effort  at  intervals,  only  to 
plunge  deeper  into  misery.  He  felt  the  approaches 
of  madness,  and  knew  that  his  only  hope  was  to 
walk  till  he  was  physically  exhausted,  so  that  he 
might  come  home  almost  fainting  with  fatigue, 
but  ready  to  fall  asleep  the  moment  he  got  into 
bed.  He  passed  the  mornings  in  a  kind  of  torpor, 
endeavouring  to  avoid  thought,  to  occupy  his 
mind  with  the  pattern  of  the  paper,  with  the  ad- 
vertisements at  the  end  of  a  book,  with  the  curious 
greyness  of  the  light  that  glimmered  through  the 
mist  into  his  room,  with  the  muffled  voices  that 
rumbled  now  and  then  from  the  street.  He  tried 
to  make  out  the  design  that  had  once  coloured 
the  faded  carpet  on  the  floor,  and  wondered  about 
the  dead  artist  in  Japan,  the  adorner  of  his  bureau. 

212 


THE   HILL  OF   DREAMS 

He  speculated  as  to  what  his  thoughts  had  been 
as  he  inserted  the  rainbow  mother-of-pearl  and 
made  that  great  flight  of  shining  birds,  dipping 
their  wings  as  they  rose  from  the  reeds,  or  how 
he  had  conceived  the  lacquer  dragons  in  red  gold, 
and  the  fantastic  houses  in  the  garden  of  peach- 
trees.  But  sooner  or  later  the  oppression  of  his 
grief  returned,  the  loud  shriek  and  clang  of  the 
garden-gate,  the  warning  bell  of  some  passing 
bicyclist  steering  through  the  fog,  the  noise  of 
his  pipe  falling  to  the  floor,  would  suddenly 
awaken  him  to  the  sense  of  misery.  He  knew 
that  it  was  time  to  go  out ;  he  could  not  bear  to 
sit  still  and  suffer.  Sometimes  he  cut  a  slice  of 
bread  and  put  it  in  his  pocket,  sometimes  he 
trusted  to  the  chance  of  finding  a  public-house, 
where  he  could  have  a  sandwich  and  a  glass  of 
beer.  He  turned  always  from  the  main  streets 
and  lost  himself  in  the  intricate  suburban  by- 
ways, willing  to  be  engulfed  in  the  infinite  white- 
ness of  the  mist. 

The  roads  had  stiffened  into  iron  ridges,  the 
fences  and  trees  were  glittering  with  frost  crystals, 
everything  was  of  strange  and  altered  aspect. 
Lucian  walked  on  and  on  through  the  maze,  now 
in  a  circle  of  shadowy  villas,  awful  as  the  buried 
213 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

streets  of  Herculaneum,  now  in  lanes  dipping 
into  the  open  country,  that  led  him  past  great 
elm-trees  whose  white  boughs  were  all  still,  and 
past  the  bitter  lonely  fields  where  the  mist  seemed 
to  fade  away  into  grey  darkness.  As  he  wandered 
along  these  unfamiliar  and  ghastly  paths  he  be- 
came the  more  convinced  of  his  utter  remoteness 
from  all  humanity,  he  allowed  that  grotesque 
suggestion  of  there  being  something  visibly  amiss 
in  his  outward  appearance  to  grow  upon  him, 
and  often  he  looked  with  a  horrible  expectation 
into  the  faces  of  those  who  passed  by,  afraid  lest 
his  own  senses  gave  him  false  intelligence,  and 
that  he  had  really  assumed  some  frightful  and 
revolting  shape.  It  was  curious  that,  partly  by 
his  own  fault,  and  largely,  no  doubt,  through  the 
operation  of  mere  coincidence,  he  was  once  or 
twice  strongly  confirmed  in  this  fantastic  delusion. 
He  came  one  day  into  a  lonely  and  unfrequented 
byway,  a  country  lane  falling  into  ruin,  but  still 
fringed  with  elms  that  had  formed  an  avenue 
leading  to  the  old  manor-house.  It  was  now  the 
road  of  communication  between  two  far  outlying 
suburbs,  and  on  these  winter  nights  lay  as  black, 
dreary,  and  desolate  as  a  mountain  track.  Soon 
after  the  frost  began,  a  gentleman  had  been  set 
214 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

upon  in  this  lane  as  he  picked  his  way  between 
the  corner  where  the  bus  had  set  him  down,  and 
his  home  where  the  fire  was  blazing,  and  his  wife 
watched  the  clock.  He  was  stumbling  uncertainly 
through  the  gloom,  growing  a  little  nervous  be- 
cause the  walk  seemed  so  long,  and  peering 
anxiously  for  the  lamp  at  the  end  of  his  street, 
when  the  two  footpads  rushed  at  him  out  of  the 
fog.  One  caught  him  from  behind,  the  other 
struck  him  with  a  heavy  bludgeon,  and  as  he  lay 
senseless  they  robbed  him  of  his  watch  and 
money,  and  vanished  across  the  fields.  The  next 
morning  all  the  suburb  rang  with  the  story ;  the 
unfortunate  merchant  had  been  grievously  hurt, 
and  wives  watched  their  husbands  go  out  in  the 
morning  with  sickening  apprehension,  not  know- 
ing what  might  happen  at  night.  Lucian  of 
course  was  ignorant  of  all  these  rumours,  and 
struck  into  the  gloomy  by-road  without  caring 
where  he  was  or  whither  the  way  would  lead 
him. 

He  had  been  driven  out  that  day  as  with 
whips,  another  hopeless  attempt  to  return  to  the 
work  had  agonised  him,  and  existence  seemed  an 
intolerable  pain.  As  he  entered  the  deeper 
gloom,  where  the  fog  hung  heavily,  he  began, 

215 


THE   HILL  OF   DREAMS 

half  consciously,  to  gesticulate  ;  he  felt  convulsed 
with  torment  and  shame,  and  it  was  a  sorry  relief 
to  clench  his  nails  into  his  palm  and  strike  the 
air  as  he  stumbled  heavily  along,  bruising  his  feet 
against  the  frozen  ruts  and  ridges.  His  impo- 
tence was  hideous,  he  said  to  himself,  and  he 
cursed  himself  and  his  life,  breaking  out  into  a 
loud  oath,  and  stamping  on  the  ground  Sud- 
denly he  was  shocked  at  a  scream  of  terror,  it 
seemed  in  his  very  ear,  and  looking  up  he  saw 
for  a  moment  a  woman  gazing  at  him  out  of  the 
mist,  her  features  distorted  and  stiff  with  fear. 
A  momentary  convulsion  twitched  her  arms  into 
the  ugly  mimicry  of  a  beckoning  gesture,  and 
she  turned  and  ran  for  dear  life,  howling  like  a 
beast. 

Lucian  stood  still  in  the  road  while  the 
woman's  cries  grew  faint  and  died  away.  His 
heart  was  chilled  within  him  as  the  significance 
of  this  strange  incident  became  clear.  He  re- 
membered nothing  of  his  violent  gestures  ;  he  had 
not  known  at  the  time  that  he  had  sworn  out 
loud,  or  that  he  was  grinding  his  teeth  with 
impotent  rage.  He  only  thought  of  that  ringing 
scream,  of  the  horrible  fear  on  the  white  face  that 
had  looked  upon  him,  of  the  woman's  headlong 
216 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

flight  from  his  presence.  He  stood  trembling  and 
shuddering,  and  in  a  little  while  he  was  feeling 
his  face,  searching  for  some  loathsome  mark,  for 
the  stigmata  of  evil  branding  his  forehead.  He 
staggered  homewards  like  a  drunken  man,  and 
when  he  came  into  the  Uxbridge  Road  some 
children  saw  him  and  called  after  him  as  he 
swayed  and  caught  at  the  lamp-post.  When  he 
got  to  his  room  he  sat  down  at  first  in  the  dark. 
He  did  not  dare  to  light  the  gas.  Everything  in 
the  room  was  indistinct,  but  he  shut  his  eyes 
as  he  passed  the  dressing-table,  and  sat  in  a 
corner,  his  face  turned  to  the  wall.  And  when  at 
last  he  gathered  courage  and  the  flame  leapt 
hissing  from  the  jet,  he  crept  piteously  towards 
the  glass,  and  ducked  his  head,  crouching  miser- 
ably, and  struggling  with  his  terrors  before  he 
could  look  at  his  own  image. 

To  the  best  of  his  power  he  tried  to  deliver 
himself  from  these  more  grotesque  fantasies ;  he 
assured  himself  that  there  was  nothing  terrific  in 
his  countenance  but  sadness,  that  his  face  was 
like  the  face  of  other  men.  Yet  he  could  not 
forget  that  reflection  he  had  seen  in  the  woman's 
eyes,  how  the  surest  mirrors  had  shown  him  a 
horrible  dread,  her  soul  itself  quailing  and 
217 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

shuddering  at  an  awful  sight.  Her  scream  rang 
and  rang  in  his  ears ;  she  had  fled  away  from  him 
as  if  he  offered  some  fate  darker  than  death. 

He  looked  again  and  again  into  the  glass, 
tortured  by  a  hideous  uncertainty.  His  senses 
told  him  there  was  nothing  amiss,  yet  he  had 
had  a  proof,  and  yet,  as  he  peered  more  earnestly, 
there  was,  it  seemed,  something  strange  and  not 
altogether  usual  in  the  expression  of  the  eyes. 
Perhaps  it  might  be  the  unsteady  flare  of  the 
gas,  or  perhaps  a  flaw  in  the  cheap  looking-glass, 
that  gave  some  slight  distortion  to  the  image. 
He  walked  briskly  up  and  down  the  room  and 
tried  to  gaze  steadily,  indifferently,  into  his  own 
face.  He  would  not  allow  himself  to  be  misguided 
by  a  word.  When  he  had  pronounced  himself  in- 
capable of  humanity,  he  had  only  meant  that  he 
could  not  enjoy  the  simple  things  of  common  life. 
A  man  was  not  necessarily  monstrous,  surrounded 
by  a  red  halo  of  malediction,  merely  because  he 
did  not  appreciate  high  tea,  a  quiet  chat  about  the 
neighbours,  and  a  happy  noisy  evening  with  the 
children.  But  with  what  message,  then,  did  he 
appear  charged  that  the  woman's  mouth  grew  so 
stark  ?  Her  hands  had  jerked  up  as  if  they  had 
been  pulled  with  frantic  wires ;  she  seemed  for 
218 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

the  instant  like  a  horrible  puppet.  Her  scream 
was  a  thing  from  the  nocturnal  Sabbath. 

He  lit  a  candle  and  held  it  close  up  to  the  glass 
so  that  his  own  face  glared  white  at  him,  and  the 
reflection  of  the  room  became  an  indistinct 
darkness.  He  saw  nothing  but  the  candle  flame 
and  his  own  shining  eyes,  and  surely  they  were 
not  as  the  eyes  of  common  men.  As  he  put 
down  the  light,  a  sudden  suggestion  entered  his 
mind,  and  he  drew  a  quick  breath,  amazed  at  the 
thought.  He  hardly  knew  whether  to  rejoice  or 
to  shudder.  For  the  thought  he  conceived  was 
this :  that  he  had  mistaken  all  the  circumstances 
of  the  adventure,  and  had  perhaps  repulsed  a 
sister  who  would  have  welcomed  him  to  the 
Sabbath. 

He  lay  awake  all  night,  turning  from  one 
dreary  and  frightful  thought  to  the  other,  scarcely 
dozing  for  a  few  hours  when  the  dawn  came.  He 
tried  for  a  moment  to  argue  with  himself  when 
he  got  up  ;  knowing  that  his  true  life  was  locked 
up  in  the  bureau,  he  made  a  desperate  attempt  to 
drive  the  phantoms  and  hideous  shapes  from  his 
mind.  He  was  assured  that  his  salvation  was  in 
the  work,  and  he  drew  the  key  from  his  pocket, 
and  made  as  if  he  would  have  opened  the  desk. 
219 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

But  the  nausea,  the  remembrances  of  repeated 
and  utter  failure,  were  too  powerful.  For  many 
days  he  hung  about  the  Manor  Lane,  half 
dreading,  half  desiring  another  meeting,  and  he 
swore  he  would  not  again  mistake  the  cry  of 
rapture,  nor  repulse  the  arms  extended  in  a  frenzy 
of  delight.  In  those  days  he  dreamed  of  some 
dark  place  where  they  might  celebrate  and  make 
the  marriage  of  the  Sabbath,  with  such  rites  as 
he  had  dared  to  imagine. 

It  was  perhaps  only  the  shock  of  a  letter  from 
his  father  that  rescued  him  from  these  evident 
approaches  to  madness.  Mr.  Taylor  wrote  how 
they  had  missed  him  at  Christmas,  how  the 
farmers  had  inquired  after  him,  of  the  homely 
familiar  things  that  recalled  his  boyhood,  his 
mother's  voice,  the  friendly  fireside,  and  the 
good  old  fashions  that  had  nurtured  him.  He 
remembered  that  he  had  once  been  a  boy,  loving 
the  cake  and  puddings  and  the  radiant  holly,  and 
all  the  seventeenth-century  mirth  that  lingered  on 
in  the  ancient  farm-houses.  And  there  came 
to  him  the  more  holy  memory  of  Mass  on  Christ- 
mas morning.  How  sweet  the  dark  and  frosty 
earth  had  smelt  as  he  walked  beside  his  mother 
down  the  winding  lane,  and  from  the  stile  near  the 

220 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

church  they  had  seen  the  world  glimmering  to  the 
dawn,  and  the  wandering  lanthorns  advancing 
across  the  fields.  Then  he  had  come  into  the 
church  and  seen  it  shining  with  candles  and  holly, 
and  his  father  in  pure  vestments  of  white  linen 
sang  the  longing  music  of  the  liturgy  at  the  altar, 
and  the  people  answered  him,  till  the  sun  rose 
with  the  grave  notes  of  the  Paternoster,  and  a 
red  beam  stole  through  the  chancel  window. 

The  worst  horror  left  him  as  he  recalled  the 
memory  of  these  dear  and  holy  things.  He  cast 
away  the  frightful  fancy  that  the  scream  he  had 
heard  was  a  shriek  of  joy,  that  the  arms,  rigidly 
jerked  out,  invited  him  to  an  embrace.  Indeed, 
the  thought  that  he  had  longed  for  such  an 
obscene  illusion,  that  he  had  gloated  over  the 
recollection  of  that  stark  mouth,  filled  him  with 
disgust.  He  resolved  that  his  senses  were  de- 
ceived, that  he  had  neither  seen  nor  heard,  but 
had  for  a  moment  externalised  his  own  slumbering 
and  morbid  dreams.  It  was  perhaps  necessary 
that  he  should  be  wretched,  that  his  efforts  should 
be  discouraged,  but  he  would  not  yield  utterly  to 
madness. 

Yet  when  he  went  abroad  with  such  good 
resolutions,  it  was  hard  to  resist  an  influence  that 

221 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

seemed  to  come  from  without  and  within.  He  did 
not  know  it,  but  people  were  everywhere  talking 
of  the  great  frost,  of  the  fog  that  lay  heavy  on 
London,  making  the  streets  dark  and  terrible,  of 
strange  birds  that  came  fluttering  about  the 
windows  in  the  silent  squares.  The  Thames 
rolled  out  duskily,  bearing  down  the  jarring  ice- 
blocks,  and  as  one  looked  on  the  black  water  from 
the  bridges  it  was  like  a  river  in  a  northern  tale. 
To  Lucian  it  all  seemed  mythical,  of  the  same 
substance  as  his  own  fantastic  thoughts.  He 
rarely  saw  a  newspaper,  and  did  not  follow  from 
day  to  day  the  systematic  readings  of  the  ther- 
mometer, the  reports  of  ice-fairs,  of  coaches  driven 
across  the  river  at  Hampton,  of  the  skating  on  the 
fens  ;  and  hence  the  iron  roads,  the  beleagured 
silence  and  the  heavy  folds  of  mist  appeared  as 
amazing  as  a  picture,  significant,  appalling.  He 
could  not  look  out  and  see  a  common  suburban 
street  foggy  and  dull,  nor  think  of  the  inhabitants 
as  at  work  or  sitting  cheerfully  eating  nuts  about 
their  fires ;  he  saw  a  vision  of  a  grey  road 
vanishing,  of  dim  houses  all  empty  and  deserted, 
and  the  silence  seemed  eternal.  And  when  he 
went  out  and  passed  through  street  after  street, 
all  void,  by  the  vague  shapes  of  houses  that 

222 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

appeared  for  a  moment  and  were  then  instantly 
swallowed  up,  it  seemed  to  him  as  if  he  had 
strayed  into  a  city  that  had  suffered  some  in- 
conceivable doom,  that  he  alone  wandered  where 
myriads  had  once  dwelt.  It  was  a  town  great  as 
Babylon,  terrible  as  Rome,  marvellous  as  Lost 
Atlantis,  set  in  the  midst  of  a  white  wilderness 
surrounded  by  waste  places.  It  was  impossible 
to  escape  from  it ;  if  he  skulked  between  hedges, 
and  crept  away  beyond  the  frozen  pools,  presently 
the  serried  stony  lines  confronted  him  like  an 
army,  and  far  and  far  they  swept  away  into  the 
night,  as  some  fabled  wall  that  guards  an  empire 
in  the  vast  dim  east.  Or  in  that  distorting  medium 
of  the  mist,  changing  all  things,  he  imagined  that 
he  trod  an  infinite  desolate  plain,  abandoned  from 
ages,  but  circled  and  encircled  with  dolmen  and 
menhir  that  loomed  out  at  him,  gigantic,  terrible. 
All  London  was  one  grey  temple  of  an  awful  rite, 
ring  within  ring  of  wizard  stones  circled  about 
some  central  place,  every  circle  was  an  initiation, 
every  initiation  eternal  loss.  Or  perhaps  he  was 
astray  for  ever  in  a  land  of  grey  rocks.  He  had 
seen  the  light  of  home,  the  flicker  of  the  fire  on 
the  walls  ;  close  at  hand,  it  seemed,  was  the  open 
door,  and  he  had  heard  dear  voices  calling  to  him 
223 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

across  the  gloom,  but  he  had  just  missed  the  path. 
The  lamps  vanished,  the  voices  sounded  thin  and 
died  away,  and  yet  he  knew  that  those  within 
were  waiting,  that  they  could  not  bear  to  close 
the  door,  but  waited,  calling  his  name,  while  he 
had  missed  the  way,  and  wandered  in  the  pathless 
desert  of  the  grey  rocks.  Fantastic,  hideous,  they 
beset  him  wherever  he  turned,  piled  up  into 
strange  shapes,  pricked  with  sharp  peaks,  as- 
suming the  appearance  of  goblin  towers,  swelling 
into  a  vague  dome  like  a  fairy  rath,  huge  and 
terrible.  And  as  one  dream  faded  into  another, 
so  these  last  fancies  were  perhaps  the  most  tor- 
menting and  persistent ;  the  rocky  avenues  became 
the  camp  and  fortalice  of  some  half-human, 
malignant  race  who  swarmed  in  hiding,  ready  to 
bear  him  away  into  the  heart  of  their  horrible 
hills.  It  was  awful  to  think  that  all  his  goings 
were  surrounded,  that  in  the  darkness  he  was 
watched  and  surveyed,  that  every  step  but  led 
him  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  labyrinth. 

When,  of  an  evening,  he  was  secure  in  his 
room,  the  blind  drawn  down  and  the  gas  flaring, 
he  made  vigorous  efforts  towards  sanity.  It  was 
not  of  his  free  will  that  he  allowed  terror  to  over- 
master him,  and  he  desired  nothing  better  than  a 
224 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

placid  and  harmless  life,  full  of  work  and  clear 
thinking.  He  knew  that  he  deluded  himself  with 
imagination,  that  he  had  been  walking  through 
London  suburbs  and  not  through  Pandemonium, 
and  that  if  he  could  but  unlock  his  bureau  all 
those  ugly  forms  would  be  resolved  into  the  mist. 
But  it  was  hard  to  say  if  he  consoled  himself 
effectually  with  such  reflections,  for  the  return  to 
common  sense  meant  also  the  return  to  the  sharp 
pangs  of  defeat.  It  recalled  him  to  the  bitter 
theme  of  his  own  inefficiency,  to  the  thought  that 
he  only  desired  one  thing  of  life,  and  that  this 
was  denied  him.  He  was  willing  to  endure  the 
austerities  of  a  monk  in  a  severe  cloister,  to  suffer 
cold,  to  be  hungry,  to  be  lonely  and  friendless,  to 
forbear  all  the  consolation  of  friendly  speech,  and 
to  be  glad  of  all  these  things,  if  only  he  might  be 
allowed  to  illuminate  the  manuscript  in  quietness. 
It  seemed  a  hideous  insufferable  cruelty,  that  he 
should  so  fervently  desire  that  which  he  could 
never  gain. 

He  was  led  back  to  the  old  conclusion  ;  he  had 
lost  the  sense  of  humanity,  he  was  wretched  be- 
cause he  was  an  alien  and  a  stranger  amongst 
citizens.  It  seemed  probable  that  the  enthusiasm 
of  literature,  as  he  understood  it,  the  fervent 
Q  225 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

desire  for  the  fine  art,  had  in  it  something  of  the 
inhuman,  and  dissevered  the  enthusiast  from  his 
fellow-creatures.  It  was  possible  that  the  bar- 
barian suspected  as  much,  that  by  some  slow 
process  of  rumination  he  had  arrived  at  his  fixed 
and  inveterate  hatred  of  all  artists.  It  was  no 
doubt  a  dim  unconscious  impression,  by  no  means 
a  clear  reasoned  conviction ;  the  average  Philistine, 
if  pressed  for  the  reasons  of  his  dislike,  would 
either  become  inarticulate,  ejaculating  'faugh '  and 
'  pah '  like  an  old-fashioned  Scots  Magazine,  or 
else  he  would  give  some  imaginary  and  absurd 
reason,  alleging  that  all  '  littery  men '  were  poor, 
that  composers  never  cut  their  hair,  that  painters 
were  rarely  public-school  men,  that  sculptors 
couldn't  ride  straight  to  hounds  to  save  their  lives, 
but  clearly  these  imbecilities  were  mere  after- 
thoughts ;  the  average  man  hated  the  artist  from 
a  deep  instinctive  dread  of  all  that  was  strange, 
uncanny,  alien  to  his  nature  ;  he  gibbered,  uttered 
his  harsh,  semi-bestial  'faugh,'  and  dismissed 
Keats  to  his  gallipots  from  much  the  same  motives 
as  usually  impelled  the  black  savage  to  dismiss 
the  white  man  on  an  even  longer  journey. 

Lucian  was  not  especially  interested    in   this 
hatred  of  the  barbarian  for  the  maker,  except 
226 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

from  this  point,  that  it  confirmed  him  in  his  belief 
that  the  love  of  art  dissociated  the  man  from  the 
race.  One  touch  of  art  made  the  whole  world 
alien,  but  surely  miseries  of  the  civilised  man  cast 
amongst  savages  were  not  so  much  caused  by 
dread  of  their  ferocity  as  by  the  terror  of  his  own 
loneliness.  He  feared  their  spears  less  than  his 
own  thoughts ;  he  would  perhaps  in  his  last 
despair  leave  his  retreat  and  go  forth  to  perish  at 
their  hands,  so  that  he  might  at  least  die  in 
company,  and  hear  the  sound  of  speech  before 
death.  And  Lucian  felt  most  keenly  that  in  his 
case  there  was  a  double  curse ;  he  was  as  isolated 
as  Keats,  and  as  inarticulate  as  his  reviewers. 
The  consolation  of  the  work  had  failed  him, 
and  he  was  suspended  in  the  void  between  two 
worlds. 

It  was  no  doubt  the  composite  effect  of  his 
failures,  his  loneliness  of  soul,  and  solitude  of  life, 
that  had  made  him  invest  those  common  streets 
with  such  grim  and  persistent  terrors.  He  had 
perhaps  yielded  to  a  temptation  without  knowing 
that  he  had  been  tempted,  and,  in  the  manner  of 
De  Quincey,  had  chosen  the  subtle  in  exchange 
for  the  more  tangible  pains.  Unconsciously,  but 
still  of  free  will,  he  had  preferred  the  splendour 
227 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

and  the  gloom  of  a  malignant  vision  before  his 
corporal  pains,  before  the  hard  reality  of  his  own 
impotence.  It  was  better  to  dwell  in  vague 
melancholy,  to  stray  in  the  forsaken  streets  of 
a  city  doomed  from  ages,  to  wander  amidst  for- 
lorn and  desperate  rocks  than  to  awake  to  a 
gnawing  and  ignoble  torment,  to  confess  that  a 
house  of  business  would  have  been  more  suitable 
and  more  practical,  that  he  had  promised  what  he 
could  never  perform.  Even  as  he  struggled  to 
beat  back  the  phantasmagoria  of  the  mist,  and 
resolved  that  he  would  no  longer  make  all  the 
streets  a  stage  of  apparitions ;  he  hardly  realised 
what  he  had  done,  or  that  the  ghosts  he  had 
called  might  depart  and  return  again. 

He  continued  his  long  walks,  always  with  the 
object  of  producing  a  physical  weariness  and 
exhaustion  that  would  enable  him  to  sleep  of 
nights.  But  even  when  he  saw  the  foggy  and 
deserted  avenues  in  their  proper  shape,  and 
allowed  his  eyes  to  catch  the  pale  glimmer  of  the 
lamps,  and  the  dancing  flame  of  the  firelight,  he 
could  not  rid  himself  of  the  impression  that  he 
stood  afar  off,  that  between  those  hearths  and 
himself  there  was  a  great  gulf  fixed.  As  he  paced 
down  the  footpath  he  could  often  see  plainly 
228 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

across  the  frozen  shrubs  into  the  homely  and 
cheerful  rooms.  Sometimes,  late  in  the  evening, 
he  caught  a  passing  glimpse  of  the  family  at  tea, 
father,  mother,  and  children  laughing  and  talking 
together,  well  pleased  with  each  other's  company. 
Sometimes  a  wife  or  a  child  was  standing  by  the 
garden  gate  peering  anxiously  through  the  fog, 
and  the  sight  of  it  all,  all  the  little  details,  the 
hideous  but  comfortable  armchairs  turned  ready 
to  the  fire,  maroon-red  curtains  being  drawn  close 
to  shut  out  the  ugly  night,  the  sudden  blaze  and 
illumination  as  the  fire  was  poked  up  so  that  it 
might  be  cheerful  for  father ;  these  trivial  and 
common  things  were  acutely  significant.  They 
brought  back  to  him  the  image  of  a  dead  boy — 
himself.  They  recalled  the  shabby  old  'parlour' 
in  the  country,  with  its  shabby  old  furniture  and 
fading  carpet,  and  renewed  a  whole  atmosphere 
of  affection  and  homely  comfort.  His  mother 
would  walk  to  the  end  of  the  drive  and  look  out 
for  him  when  he  was  late  (wandering  then  about 
the  dark  woodlands) ;  on  winter  evenings  she 
would  make  the  fire  blaze,  and  have  his  slippers 
warming  by  the  hearth,  and  there  was  probably 
buttered  toast  'as  a  treat'  He  dwelt  on  all  these 
insignificant  petty  circumstances,  on  the  genial 
229 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

glow  and  light  after  the  muddy  winter  lanes,  on 
the  relish  of  the  buttered  toast  and  the  smell  of 
the  hot  tea,  on  the  two  old  cats  curled  fast  asleep 
before  the  fender,  and  made  them  instruments  of 
exquisite  pain  and  regret.  Each  of  these  strange 
houses  that  he  passed  was  identified  in  his  mind 
with  his  own  vanished  home ;  all  was  prepared 
and  ready  as  in  the  old  days,  but  he  was  shut  out, 
judged  and  condemned  to  wander  in  the  frozen 
mist,  with  weary  feet,  anguished  and  forlorn,  and 
they  that  would  pass  from  within  to  help  him 
could  not,  neither  could  he  pass  to  them.  Again, 
for  the  hundredth  time,  he  came  back  to  the  sen- 
tence, he  could  not  gain  the  art  of  letters  and  he 
had  lost  the  art  of  humanity.  He  saw  the  vanity 
of  all  his  thoughts ;  he  was  an  ascetic  caring 
nothing  for  warmth  and  cheerfulness  and  the 
small  comforts  of  life,  and  yet  he  allowed  his 
mind  to  dwell  on  such  things.  If  one  of  those 
passers-by,  who  walked  briskly,  eager  for  home, 
should  have  pitied  him  by  some  miracle  and  asked 
him  to  come  in,  it  would  have  been  worse  than 
useless,  yet  he  longed  for  pleasures  that  he  could 
not  have  enjoyed.  It  was  as  if  he  were  come  to 
a  place  of  torment,  where  they  who  could  not 
drink  longed  for  water,  where  they  who  could  feel 
230 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

no  warmth  shuddered  in  the  eternal  cold.  He 
was  oppressed  by  the  grim  conceit  that  he  himself 
still  slept  within  the  matted  thicket,  imprisoned 
by  the  green  bastions  of  the  Roman  fort.  He  had 
never  come  out,  but  a  changeling  had  gone  down 
the  hill,  and  now  stirred  about  the  earth. 

Beset  by  such  ingenious  terrors,  it  was  not 
wonderful  that  outward  events  and  common  inci- 
dents should  abet  his  fancies.  He  had  succeeded 
one  day  in  escaping  from  the  mesh  of  the  streets, 
and  fell  on  a  rough  and  narrow  lane  that  stole 
into  a  little  valley.  For  the  moment  he  was  in 
a  somewhat  happier  mood ;  the  afternoon  sun 
glowed  through  the  rolling  mist,  and  the  air  grew 
clearer.  He  saw  quiet  and  peaceful  fields,  and  a 
wood  descending  in  a  gentle  slope  from  an  old 
farmstead  of  warm  red  brick.  The  farmer  was 
driving  the  slow  cattle  home  from  the  hill,  and 
his  loud  halloo  to  his  dog  came  across  the  land  a 
cheerful  mellow  note.  From  another  side  a  cart 
was  approaching  the  clustered  barns,  hesitating, 
pausing  while  the  great  horses  rested,  and  then 
starting  again  into  lazy  motion.  In  the  well  of 
the  valley  a  wandering  line  of  bushes  showed 
where  a  brook  crept  in  and  out  amongst  the 
meadows,  and,  as  Lucian  stood,  lingering,  on  the 
231 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

bridge,  a  soft  and  idle  breath  ruffled  through  the 
boughs  of  a  great  elm.  He  felt  soothed,  as  by 
calm  music,  and  wondered  whether  it  would  not 
be  better  for  him  to  live  in  some  such  quiet  place, 
within  reach  of  the  streets  and  yet  remote  from 
them.  It  seemed  a  refuge  for  still  thoughts;  he 
could  imagine  himself  sitting  at  rest  beneath  the 
black  yew  tree  in  the  farm  garden,  at  the  close  of 
a  summer  day.  He  had  almost  determined  that 
he  would  knock  at  the  door  and  ask  if  they  would 
take  him  as  a  lodger,  when  he  saw  a  child  running 
towards  him  down  the  lane.  It  was  a  little  girl, 
with  bright  curls  tossing  about  her  head,  and,  as 
she  came  on,  the  sunlight  glowed  upon  her,  illu- 
minating her  brick-red  frock  and  the  yellow  king- 
cups in  her  hat.  She  had  run  with  her  eyes  on 
the  ground,  chirping  and  laughing  to  herself,  and 
did  not  see  Lucian  till  she  was  quite  near  him. 
She  started  and  glanced  into  his  eyes  for  a 
moment,  and  began  to  cry ;  he  stretched  out  his 
hand,  and  she  ran  from  him  screaming,  frightened 
no  doubt  by  what  was  to  her  a  sudden  and 
strange  apparition.  He  turned  back  towards 
London,  and  the  mist  folded  him  in  its  thick 
darkness,  for  on  that  evening  it  was  tinged  with 
black. 

232 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

It  was  only  by  the  intensest  strain  of  resolu- 
tion that  he  did  not  yield  utterly  to  the  poisonous 
anodyne  which  was  always  at  his  hand.  It  had 
been  a  difficult  struggle  to  escape  from  the  mesh 
of  the  hills,  from  the  music  of  the  fauns,  and 
even  now  he  was  drawn  by  the  memory  of  these 
old  allurements.  But  he  felt  that  here,  in  his 
loneliness,  he  was  in  greater  danger,  and  beset  by 
a  blacker  magic.  Horrible  fancies  rushed  wan- 
tonly into  his  mind  ;  he  was  not  only  ready  to 
believe  that  something  in  his  soul  sent  a  shudder 
through  all  that  was  simple  and  innocent,  but  he 
came  trembling  home  one  Saturday  night,  be- 
lieving, or  half-believing,  that  he  was  in  commu- 
nion with  evil.  He  had  passed  through  the 
clamorous  and  blatant  crowd  of  the  '  high  street/ 
where,  as  one  climbed  the  hill,  the  shops  seemed 
all  aflame,  and  the  black  night  air  glowed  with 
the  flaring  gas-jets  and  the  naphtha-lamps,  hissing 
and  wavering  before  the  February  wind.  Voices, 
raucous,  clamant,  abominable,  were  belched  out  of 
the  blazing  public-houses  as  the  doors  swung  to 
and  fro,  and  above  these  doors  were  hideous 
brassy  lamps,  very  slowly  swinging  in  a  violent 
blast  of  air,  so  that  they  might  have  been  infernal 
thuribles,  censing  the  people.  Some  man  was 
233 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

calling  his  wares  in  one  long  continuous  shriek 
that  never  stopped  or  paused,  and,  as  a  respond, 
a  deeper,  louder  voice  roared  to  him  from  across 
the  road.  An  Italian  whirled  the  handle  of  his 
piano-organ  in  a  fury,  and  a  ring  of  imps  danced 
mad  figures  around  him,  danced  and  flung  up 
their  legs  till  the  rags  dropped  from  some  of 
them,  and  they  still  danced  on.  A  flare  of  naphtha, 
burning  with  a  rushing  noise,  threw  a  light  on  one 
point  of  the  circle,  and  Lucian  watched  a  lank 
girl  of  fifteen  as  she  came  round  and  round  to  the 
flash.  She  was  quite  drunk,  and  had  kicked  her 
petticoats  away,  and  the  crowd  howled  laughter 
and  applause  at  her.  Her  black  hair  poured 
down  and  leapt  on  her  scarlet  bodice  ;  she  sprang 
and  leapt  round  the  ring,  laughing  in  Bacchic 
frenzy,  and  led  the  orgy  to  triumph.  People 
were  crossing  to  and  fro,  jostling  against  each 
other,  swarming  about  certain  shops  and  stalls  in 
a  dense  dark  mass  that  quivered  and  sent  out 
feelers  as  if  it  were  one  writhing  organism.  A 
little  farther  a  group  of  young  men,  arm  in  arm, 
were  marching  down  the  roadway  chanting  some 
music-hall  verse  in  full  chorus,  so  that  it  sounded 
like  plainsong.  An  impossible  hubbub,  a  hum  of 
voices  angry  as  swarming  bees,  the  squeals  of  five 
234 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

or  six  girls  who  ran  in  and  out,  and  dived  up 
dark  passages  and  darted  back  into  the  crowd  ; 
all  these  mingled  together  till  his  ears  quivered. 
A  young  fellow  was  playing  the  concertina,  and 
he  touched  the  keys  with  such  slow  fingers  that 
the  tune  wailed  solemn  into  a  dirge ;  but  there 
was  nothing  so  strange  as  the  burst  of  sound  that 
swelled  out  when  the  public-house  doors  were 
opened. 

He  walked  amongst  these  people,  looked  at 
their  faces,  and  looked  at  the  children  amongst 
them.  He  had  come  out  thinking  that  he  would 
see  the  English  working  class,  '  the  best-behaved 
and  the  best-tempered  crowd  in  the  world,'  enjoy- 
ing the  simple  pleasure  of  the  Saturday  night's 
shopping.  Mother  bought  the  joint  for  Sunday's 
dinner,  and  perhaps  a  pair  of  boots  for  father; 
father  had  an  honest  glass  of  beer,  and  the  chil- 
dren were  given  bags  of  sweets,  and  then  all 
these  worthy  people  went  decently  home  to  their 
well-earned  rest.  De  Quincey  had  enjoyed  the 
sight  in  his  day,  and  had  studied  the  rise  and  fall 
of  onions  and  potatoes.  Lucian,  indeed,  had  de- 
sired to  take  these  simple  emotions  as  an  opiate, 
to  forget  the  fine  fret  and  fantastic  trouble  of  his 
own  existence  in  plain  things  and  the  palpable 
235 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

joy  of  rest  after  labour.  He  was  only  afraid  lest 
he  should  be  too  sharply  reproached  by  the  sight 
of  these  men  who  fought  bravely  year  after  year 
against  starvation,  who  knew  nothing  of  intricate 
and  imagined  grief,  but  only  the  weariness  of  re- 
lentless labour,  of  the  long  battle  for  their  wives 
and  children.  It  would  be  pathetic,  he  thought, 
to  see  them  content  with  so  little,  brightened  by 
the  expectation  of  a  day's  rest  and  a  good  dinner, 
forced,  even  then,  to  reckon  every  penny,  and  to 
make  their  children  laugh  with  halfpence.  Either 
he  would  be  ashamed  before  so  much  content,  or 
else  he  would  be  again  touched  by  the  sense  of 
his  inhumanity  which  could  take  no  interest  in 
the  common  things  of  life.  But  still  he  went  to 
be  at  least  taken  out  of  himself,  to  be  forced  to 
look  at  another  side  of  the  world,  so  that  he 
might  perhaps  forget  for  a  little  while  his  own 
sorrows. 

He  was  fascinated  by  what  he  saw  and  heard. 
He  wondered  whether  De  Quincey  also  had  seen 
the  same  spectacle,  and  had  concealed  his  impres- 
sions out  of  reverence  for  the  average  reader. 
Here  there  were  no  simple  joys  of  honest  toilers, 
but  wonderful  orgies,  that  drew  out  his  heart  to 
horrible  music.  At  first  the  violence  of  sound 
236 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

and  sight  had  overwhelmed  him ;  the  lights 
flaring  in  the  night  wind,  the  array  of  naphtha 
lamps,  the  black  shadows,  the  roar  of  voices.  The 
dance  about  the  piano-organ  had  been  the  first 
sign  of  an  inner  meaning,  and  the  face  of  the 
dark  girl  as  she  came  round  and  round  to  the 
flame  had  been  amazing  in  its  utter  furious 
abandon.  And  what  songs  they  were  singing  all 
around  him,  and  what  terrible  words  rang  out, 
only  to  excite  peals  of  laughter.  In  the  public- 
houses  the  workmen's  wives,  the  wives  of  small 
tradesmen,  decently  dressed  in  black,  were  drink- 
ing their  faces  to  a  flaming  red,  and  urging  their 
husbands  to  drink  more.  Beautiful  young  women, 
flushed  and  laughing,  put  their  arms  round  the 
men's  necks  and  kissed  them,  and  then  held  up 
the  glass  to  their  lips.  In  the  dark  corners,  at 
the  openings  of  side  streets,  the  children  were 
talking  together,  instructing  each  other,  whisper- 
ing what  they  had  seen ;  a  boy  of  fifteen  was 
plying  a  girl  of  twelve  with  whisky,  and  presently 
they  crept  away.  Lucian  passed  them  as  they 
turned  to  go,  and  both  looked  at  him.  The  boy 
laughed,  and  the  girl  smiled  quietly.  It  was 
above  all  in  the  faces  around  him  that  he  saw  the 
most  astounding  things,  the  Bacchic  fury  un- 
237 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

veiled  and  unashamed.  To  his  eyes  it  seemed  as 
if  these  revellers  recognised  him  as  a  fellow,  and 
smiled  up  in  his  face,  aware  that  he  was  in  the 
secret.  Every  instinct  of  religion,  of  civilisation 
even,  was  swept  away ;  they  gazed  at  one  another 
and  at  him  absolved  of  all  scruples,  children  of 
the  earth  and  nothing  more.  Now  and  then  a 
couple  detached  themselves  from  the  swarm,  and 
went  away  into  the  darkness,  answering  the  jeers 
and  laughter  of  their  friends  as  they  vanished. 

On  the  edge  of  the  pavement,  not  far  from 
where  he  was  standing,  Lucian  noticed  a  tall  and 
lovely  young  woman  who  seemed  to  be  alone. 
She  was  in  the  full  light  of  a  naphtha  flame,  and 
her  bronze  hair  and  flushed  cheeks  shone  illumi- 
nate as  she  viewed  the  orgy.  She  had  dark 
brown  eyes,  and  a  strange  look  as  of  an  old  pic- 
ture in  her  face ;  and  her  eyes  brightened  with 
an  argent  gleam.  He  saw  the  revellers  nudging 
each  other  and  glancing  at  her,  and  two  or  three 
young  men  went  up  and  asked  her  to  come  for  a 
walk.  She  shook  her  head  and  said  '  No  thank 
you '  again  and  again,  and  seemed  as  if  she  were 
looking  for  somebody  in  the  crowd. 

'  I'm  expecting  a  friend,'  she  said  at  last  to  a 
man  who  proposed  a  drink  and  a  walk  afterwards ; 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

and  Lucian  wondered  what  kind  of  friend  would 
ultimately  appear.  Suddenly  she  turned  to  him 
as  he  was  about  to  pass  on,  and  said  in  a  low 
voice  : 

'  I'll  go  for  a  walk  with  you  if  you  like ;  you 
just  go  on,  and  I'll  follow  in  a  minute.' 

For  a  moment  he  looked  steadily  at  her.  He 
saw  that  the  first  glance  had  misled  him ;  her 
face  was  not  flushed  with  drink  as  he  had  supposed, 
but  it  was  radiant  with  the  most  exquisite  colour, 
a  red  flame  glowed  and  died  on  her  cheek,  and 
seemed  to  palpitate  as  she  spoke.  The  head  was 
set  on  the  neck  nobly,  as  in  a  statue,  and  about 
the  ears  the  bronze  hair  strayed  into  little  curls. 
She  was  smiling  and  waiting  for  his  answer. 

He  muttered  something  about  being  very  sorry, 
and  fled  down  the  hill  out  of  the  orgy,  from  the 
noise  of  roaring  voices  and  the  glitter  of  the  great 
lamps  very  slowly  swinging  in  the  blast  of  wind. 
He  knew  that  he  had  touched  the  brink  of  utter 
destruction  ;  there  was  death  in  the  woman's 
face,  and  she  had  indeed  summoned  him  to  the 
Sabbath.  Somehow  he  had  been  able  to  refuse 
on  the  instant,  but  If  he  had  delayed  he  knew  he 
would  have  abandoned  himself  to  her  body  and 
soul.  He  locked  himself  in  his  room  and  lay 
239 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

trembling  on  the  bed,  wondering  if  some  subtle 
sympathy  had  shown  the  woman  her  perfect 
companion.  He  looked  in  the  glass,  not  expect- 
ing now  to  see  certain  visible  and  outward  signs, 
but  searching  for  the  meaning  of  that  strange 
glance  that  lit  up  his  eyes.  He  had  grown  even 
thinner  than  before  in  the  last  few  months,  and 
his  cheeks  were  wasted  with  hunger  and  sorrow, 
but  there  were  still  about  his  features  the  sugges- 
tion of  a  curious  classic  grace,  and  the  look  as  of 
a  faun  who  has  strayed  from  the  vineyards  and 
olive  gardens.  He  had  broken  away,  but  now  he 
felt  the  mesh  of  her  net  about  him,  a  desire  for 
her  that  was  a  madness,  as  if  she  held  every  nerve 
in  his  body  and  drew  him  to  her,  to  her  mystic 
world,  to  the  rosebush  where  every  flower  was 
a  flame. 

He  dreamed  all  night  of  the  perilous  things  he 
had  refused,  and  it  was  loss  to  awake  in  the 
morning,  pain  to  return  to  the  world.  The  frost 
had  broken  and  the  fog  had  rolled  away,  and  the 
grey  street  was  rilled  with  a  clear  grey  light. 
Again  he  looked  out  on  the  long  dull  sweep  of 
the  monotonous  houses,  hidden  for  the  past 
weeks  by  a  curtain  of  mist.  Heavy  rain  had 
fallen  in  the  night,  and  the  garden  rails  were 
240 


THE   HILL   OF  DREAMS 

still  dripping,  the  roofs  still  dark  with  wet,  all 
down  the  line  the  dingy  white  blinds  were  drawn 
in  the  upper  windows.  Not  a  soul  walked 
the  street ;  every  one  was  asleep  after  the 
exertions  of  the  night  before ;  even  on  the  main 
road  it  was  only  at  intervals  that  some  straggler 
paddled  by.  Presently  a  woman  in  a  brown 
ulster  shuffled  off  on  some  errand,  then  a  man  in 
shirt-sleeves  poked  out  his  head,  holding  the  door 
half-open,  and  stared  up  at  a  window  opposite. 
After  a  few  minutes  he  slunk  in  again,  and  three 
loafers  came  slouching  down  the  street,  eager  for 
mischief  or  beastliness  of  some  sort.  They  chose 
a  house  that  seemed  rather  smarter  than  the  rest, 
and,  irritated  by  the  neat  curtains,  the  little  grass 
plot  with  its  dwarf  shrub,  one  of  the  ruffians  drew 
out  a  piece  of  chalk  and  wrote  some  words  on  the 
front  door.  His  friends  kept  watch  for  him,  and 
the  adventure  achieved,  all  three  bolted,  bellowing 
yahoo  laughter.  Then  a  bell  began,  tang,  tang, 
tang,  and  here  and  there  children  appeared  on 
their  way  to  Sunday-school,  and  the  chapel 
'  teachers '  went  by  with  verjuice  eyes  and  lips, 
scowling  at  the  little  boy  who  cried  'Piper,  piper!' 
On  the  main  road  many  respectable  people,  the 
men  shining  and  ill-fitted,  the  women  hideously 

R  241 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

bedizened,  passed  in  the  direction  of  the  Inde- 
pendent nightmare,  the  stuccoed  thing  with  Doric 
columns,  but  on  the  whole  life  was  stagnant. 
Presently  Lucian  smelt  the  horrid  fumes  of  roast 
beef  and  cabbage;  the  early  risers  were  preparing 
the  one-o'clock  meal,  but  many  lay  in  bed  and 
put  off  dinner  till  three,  with  the  effect  of  prolong- 
ing the  cabbage  atmosphere  into  the  late  after- 
noon. A  drizzly  rain  began  as  the  people  were 
coming  out  of  church,  and  the  mothers  of  little 
boys  in  velvet  and  little  girls  in  foolishness  of 
every  kind  were  impelled  to  slap  their  offspring, 
and  to  threaten  them  with  father.  Then  the 
torpor  of  beef  and  beer  and  cabbage  settled  down 
on  the  street ;  in  some  houses  they  snorted  and 
read  the  Parish  Magazine,  in  some  they  snored 
and  read  the  murders  and  collected  filth  of  the 
week ;  but  the  only  movement  of  the  afternoon 
was  a  second  procession  of  children,  now  bloated 
and  distended  with  food,  again  answering  the 
summons  of  tang,  tang,  tang.  On  the  main  road 
the  trams,  laden  with  impossible  people,  went 
humming  to  and  fro,  and  young  men  who  wore 
bright  blue  ties  cheerfully  haw-hawed  and 
smoked  penny  cigars.  They  annoyed  the  shiny 
and  respectable  and  verjuice-lipped,  not  by  the 
242 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

frightful  stench  of  the  cigars,  but  because  they 
were  cheerful  on  Sunday.  By  and  by  the  children, 
having  heard  about  Moses  in  the  Bulrushes  and 
Daniel  in  the  Lion's  Den,  came  straggling  home 
in  an  evil  humour.  And  all  the  day  it  was  as  if 
on  a  grey  sheet  grey  shadows  flickered,  pass- 
ing by. 

And  in  the  rose-garden  every  flower  was  a 
flame  !  He  thought  in  symbols,  using  the  Persian 
imagery  of  a  dusky  court,  surrounded  by  white 
cloisters,  gilded  by  gates  of  bronze.  The  stars 
came  out,  the  sky  glowed  a  darker  violet,  but  the 
cloistered  wall,  the  fantastic  trellises  in  stone, 
shone  whiter.  It  was  like  a  hedge  of  may- 
blossom,  like  a  lily  within  a  cup  of  lapis-lazuli, 
like  sea-foam  tossed  on  the  heaving  sea  at  dawn. 
Always  those  white  cloisters  trembled  with  the 
lute  music,  always  the  garden  sang  with  the  clear 
fountain,  rising  and  falling  in  the  mysterious 
dusk.  And  there  was  a  singing  voice  stealing 
through  the  white  lattices  and  the  bronze  gates, 
a  soft  voice  chanting  of  the  Lover  and  the  Beloved, 
of  the  Vineyard,  of  the  Gate  and  the  Way.  Oh ! 
the  language  was  unknown  ;  but,  the  music  of  the 
refrain  returned  again  and  again,  swelling  and 
trembling  through  the  white  nets  of  the  latticed 
243 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

cloisters.  And  every  rose  in  the  dusky  air  was 
a  flame. 

The  shadowy  air  was  full  of  the  perfume  of 
eastern  things.  The  attar  of  roses  must  have 
been  sprinkled  in  the  fountain  ;  the  odour  seemed 
to  palpitate  in  the  nostrils,  as  the  music  and  sing- 
ing on  the  ears.  A  thin  spire  of  incense  rose 
from  a  rich  brass  censer,  and  floated  in  filmy 
whorls  across  the  oleander  blossoms.  And  there 
were  hints  of  strange  drugs,  the  scent  of  opium 
and  asrar,  breathing  deep  reverie  and  the  joy  of 
long  meditation.  The  white  walls,  the  latticed 
cloisters  of  the  court,  seemed  to  advance  and 
retreat,  to  flush  and  pale  as  the  stars  brightened 
and  grew  larger  into  silver  worlds ;  all  the  faery- 
work  of  the  chancelled  stone  hovered  and  glim- 
mered beneath  the  sky,  dark  as  the  violet,  dark  as 
wine.  The  singing  voice  swelled  to  rapture  and 
passion  as  the  song  chanted  the  triumph  of  the 
Lover  and  the  Beloved,  how  their  souls  were 
melted  together  as  the  juice  of  the  grape  is 
mingled  in  the  vintage,  how  they  found  the  Gate 
and  the  Way.  And  all  the  blossoms  in  the  dusky 
air,  all  the  flowers  in  the  garden,  all  the  roses 
upon  the  tree,  were  aflame. 

He  had  seen  the  life  which  he  expressed  by 
244 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

these  symbols  offered  to  him,  and  he  had  refused 
it ;  and  he  was  alone  in  the  grey  street,  with  its 
lamps  just  twinkling  through  the  dreary  twilight, 
the  blast  of  a  ribald  chorus  sounding  from  the 
main  road,  a  doggerel  hymn  whining  from  some 
parlour,  to  the  accompaniment  of  the  harmonium. 
He  wondered  why  he  had  turned  away  from  that 
woman  who  knew  all  secrets,  in  whose  eyes  were 
all  the  mysteries.  He  opened  the  desk  of  his 
bureau,  and  was  confronted  by  the  heap  and 
litter  of  papers,  lying  in  confusion  as  he  had  left 
them.  He  knew  that  there  was  the  motive  of  his 
refusal ;  he  had  been  unwilling  to  abandon  all 
hope  of  the  work.  The  glory  and  the  torment  of 
his  ambition  glowed  upon  him  as  he  looked  at 
the  manuscript ;  it  seemed  so  pitiful  that  such  a 
single  desire  should  be  thwarted.  He  was  aware 
that  if  he  chose  to  sit  down  now  before  the  desk 
he  could,  in  a  manner,  write  easily  enough — he 
could  produce  a  tale  which  would  be  formally 
well  constructed  and  certain  of  favourable  recep- 
tion. And  it  would  not  be  the  utterly  common- 
place, entirely  hopeless  favourite  of  the  circulating 
library ;  it  would  stand  in  those  ranks  where  the 
real  thing  is  skilfully  counterfeited,  amongst  the 
books  which  give  the  reader  his  orgy  of  emotions, 
245 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

and  yet  contrive  to  be  superior,  and  '  art,'  in  his 
opinion.  Lucian  had  often  observed  this  species 
of  triumph,  and  had  noted  the  acclamation  that 
never  failed  the  clever  sham,  the  literary  lie. 
Romola,  for  example,  had  made  the  great  host  of 
the  serious,  the  portentous,  shout  for  joy,  while 
the  real  book,  The  Cloister  and  the  Hearth,  was 
a  comparative  failure. 

He  knew  that  he  could  write  a  Romola  ;  but  he 
thought  the  art  of  counterfeiting  half-crowns  less 
detestable  than  this  shabby  trick  of  imitating 
literature.  He  had  refused  definitely  to  enter 
the  atelier  of  the  gentleman  who  pleased  his 
clients  by  ingeniously  simulating  the  grain  of 
walnut;  and  though  he  had  seen  the  old  oaken 
aumbry  kicked  out  contemptuously  into  the  farm- 
yard, serving  perhaps  the  necessities  of  hens  or 
pigs,  he  would  not  apprentice  himself  to  the 
masters  of  veneer.  He  paced  up  and  down  the 
room,  glancing  now  and  again  at  his  papers,  and 
wondering  if  there  were  no  hope  for  him.  A 
great  thing  he  could  never  do,  but  he  had  longed 
to  do  a  true  thing,  to  imagine  sincere  and 
genuine  pages. 

He  was  stirred  again  to  this  fury  for  the  work 
by  the  event  of  the  evening  before,  by  all  that 
246 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

had  passed  through  his  mind  since  the  melancholy 
dawn.  The  lurid  picture  of  that  fiery  street,  the 
flaming  shops  and  flaming  glances,  all  its  wonders 
and  horrors,  lit  by  the  naphtha  flares  and  by  the 
burning  souls,  had  possessed  him  ;  and  the  noises, 
the  shriek  and  the  whisper,  the  jangling  rattle  of 
the  piano-organ,  the  long-continued  scream  of  the 
butcher  as  he  dabbled  in  the  blood,  the  lewd  litany 
of  the  singers,  these  seemed  to  be  resolved  into  an 
infernal  overture,  loud  with  the  expectation  of 
lust  and  death.  And  how  the  spectacle  was  set 
in  the  cloud  of  dark  night,  a  phantom  play  acted 
on  that  fiery  stage,  beneath  those  hideous  brassy 
lamps,  very  slowly  swinging  in  a  violent  blast. 
As  all  the  medley  of  outrageous  sights  and  sounds 
now  fused  themselves  within  his  brain  into  one 
clear  impression,  it  seemed  that  he  had  indeed 
witnessed  and  acted  in  a  drama,  that  all  the  scene 
had  been  prepared  and  vested  for  him,  and  that 
the  choric  songs  he  had  heard  were  but  preludes 
to  a  greater  act.  For  in  that  woman  was  the 
consummation  and  catastrophe  of  it  all,  and  the 
whole  stage  waited  for  their  meeting.  He  fancied 
that  after  this  the  voices  and  the  lights  died 
away,  that  the  crowd  sank  swiftly  into  the  dark- 
ness, and  that  the  street  was  at  once  denuded 
247 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

of  the  great  lamps  and  of  all  its  awful  scenic 
apparatus. 

Again,  he  thought,  the  same  mystery  would  be 
represented  before  him ;  suddenly  on  some  dark 
and  gloomy  night,  as  he  wandered  lonely  on  a 
deserted  road,  the  wind  hurrying  before  him, 
suddenly  a  turn  would  bring  him  again  upon  the 
fiery  stage,  and  the  antique  drama  would  be  re- 
enacted.  He  would  be  drawn  to  the  same  place, 
to  find  that  woman  still  standing  there  ;  again  he 
would  watch  the  rose  radiant  and  palpitating  upon 
her  cheek,  the  argent  gleam  in  her  brown  eyes, 
the  bronze  curls  gilding  the  white  splendour  of 
her  neck.  And  for  the  second  time  she  would 
freely  offer  herself.  He  could  hear  the  wail  of 
the  singers  swelling  to  a  shriek,  and  see  the  dusky 
dancers  whirling  round  in  a  faster  frenzy,  and  the 
naphtha  flares  tinged  with  red,  as  the  woman  and 
he  went  away  into  the  dark,  into  the  cloistered 
court  where  every  flower  was  a  flame,  whence  he 
would  never  come  out. 

His  only  escape  was  in  the  desk ;  he  might 
find  salvation  if  he  could  again  hide  his  heart  in 
the  heap  and  litter  of  papers,  and  again  be  rapt 
by  the  cadence  of  a  phrase.  He  threw  open  his 
window  and  looked  out  on  the  dim  world  and  the 
248 


THE   HILL  OF   DREAMS 

glimmering  amber  lights.  He  resolved  that  he 
would  rise  early  in  the  morning,  and  seek  once 
more  for  his  true  life  in  the  work. 

But  there  was  a  strange  thing.  There  was  a 
little  bottle  on  the  mantelpiece,  a  bottle  of  dark 
blue  glass,  and  he  trembled  and  shuddered  before 
it,  as  if  it  were  a  fetish. 


249 


VII 


IT  was  very  dark  in  the  room.  He  seemed  by 
slow  degrees  to  awake  from  a  long  and  heavy 
torpor,  from  an  utter  forgetfulness,  and  as  he 
raised  his  eyes  he  could  scarcely  discern  the  pale 
whiteness  of  the  paper  on  the  desk  before  him. 
He  remembered  something  of  a  gloomy  winter 
afternoon,  of  driving  rain,  of  gusty  wind  :  he  had 
fallen  asleep  over  his  work,  no  doubt,  and  the 
night  had  come  down. 

He  lay  back  in  his  chair,  wondering  whether  it 
were  late ;  his  eyes  were  half  closed,  and  he  did 
not  make  the  effort  and  rouse  himself.  He  could 
hear  the  stormy  noise  of  the  wind,  and  the  sound 
reminded  him  of  the  half-forgotten  days.  He 
thought  of  his  boyhood,  and  the  old  rectory,  and  the 
great  elms  that  surrounded  it.  There  was  some- 
thing pleasant  in  the  consciousness  that  he  was  still 
half  dreaming  ;  he  knew  he  could  wake  up  when- 
ever he  pleased,  but  for  the  moment  he  amused 
himself  by  the  pretence  that  he  was  a  little  boy 
250 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

again,  tired  with  his  rambles  and  the  keen  air  of 
the  hills.  He  remembered  how  he  would  sometimes 
wake  up  in  the  dark  at  midnight,  and  listen 
sleepily  for  a  moment  to  the  rush  of  the  wind 
straining  and  crying  amongst  the  elms,  and  hear 
it  beat  upon  the  walls,  and  then  he  would  fall  to 
dreams  again,  happy  in  his  warm,  snug  bed. 

The  wind  grew  louder,  and  the  windows  rattled. 
He  half  opened  his  eyes  and  shut  them  again, 
determined  to  cherish  that  sensation  of  long  ago. 
He  felt  tired  and  heavy  with  sleep ;  he  imagined 
that  he  was  exhausted  by  some  effort ;  he  had, 
perhaps,  been  writing  furiously,  without  rest. 
He  could  not  recollect  at  the  instant  what  the 
work  had  been ;  it  would  be  delightful  to  read 
the  pages  when  he  made  up  his  mind  to  bestir 
himself. 

Surely  that  was  the  noise  of  boughs,  swaying 
and  grinding  in  the  wind.  He  remembered  one 
night  at  home  when  such  a  sound  had  roused 
him  suddenly  from  a  deep  sweet  sleep.  There 
was  a  rushing  and  beating  as  of  wings  upon  the 
air,  and  a  heavy  dreary  noise,  like  thunder  far 
away  upon  the  mountain.  He  had  got  out  of 
bed  and  looked  from  behind  the  blind  to  see 
what  was  abroad.  He  remembered  the  strange 
251 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

sight  he  had  seen,  and  he  pretended  it  would  be 
just  the  same  if  he  cared  to  look  out  now.  There 
were  clouds  flying  awfully  from  before  the  moon, 
and  a  pale  light  that  made  the  familiar  land  look 
strange  and  terrible.  The  blast  of  wind  came 
with  a  great  shriek,  and  the  trees  tossed  and 
bowed  and  quivered  ;  the  wood  was  scourged  and 
horrible,  and  the  night  air  was  ghastly  with  a  con- 
fused tumult,  and  voices  as  of  a  host.  A  huge 
black  cloud  rolled  across  the  heaven  from  the 
west  and  covered  up  the  moon,  and  there  came  a 
torrent  of  bitter  hissing  rain. 

It  was  all  a  vivid  picture  to  him  as  he  sat  in 
his  chair,  unwilling  to  wake.  Even  as  he  let  his 
mind  stray  back  to  that  night  of  the  past  years, 
the  rain  beat  sharply  on  the  window-panes,  and 
though  there  were  no  trees  in  the  grey  suburban 
street,  he  heard  distinctly  the  crash  of  boughs. 
He  wandered  vaguely  from  thought  to  thought, 
groping  indistinctly  amongst  memories,  like  a 
man  trying  to  cross  from  door  to  door  in  a 
darkened  unfamiliar  room.  But,  no  doubt,  if  he 
were  to  look  out,  by  some  magic  the  whole  scene 
would  be  displayed  before  him.  He  would  not 
see  the  curve  of  monotonous  two-storied  houses, 
with  here  and  there  a  white  blind,  a  patch  of 
252 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

light,  and  shadows  appearing  and  vanishing,  not 
the  rain  plashing  in  the  muddy  road,  not  the 
amber  of  the  gas-lamp  opposite,  but  the  wild 
moonlight  poured  on  the  dearly  loved  country; 
far  away  the  dim  circle  of  the  hills  and  woods, 
and  beneath  him  the  tossing  trees  about  the 
lawn,  and  the  wood  heaving  under  the  fury  of  the 
wind. 

He  smiled  to  himself,  amidst  his  lazy  medita- 
tions, to  think  how  real  it  seemed,  and  yet  it  was 
all  far  away,  the  scenery  of  an  old  play  long 
ended  and  forgotten.  It  was  strange  that  after 
all  these  years  of  trouble  and  work  and  change  he 
should  be  in  any  sense  the  same  person  as  that 
little  boy  peeping  out,  half  frightened,  from  the 
rectory  window.  It  was  as  if  on  looking  in  the 
glass  one  should  see  a  stranger,  and  yet  know  that 
the  image  was  a  true  reflection. 

The  memory  of  the  old  home  recalled  his  father 
and  mother  to  him,  and  he  wondered  whether  his 
mother  would  come  if  he  were  to  cry  out  sud- 
denly. One  night,  on  just  such  a  night  as  this, 
when  a  great  storm  blew  from  the  mountain,  a 
tree  had  fallen  with  a  crash  and  a  bough  had 
struck  the  roof,  and  he  awoke  in  a  fright,  calling 
for  his  mother.  She  had  come  and  had  comforted 
253 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

him,  soothing  him  to  sleep,  and  now  he  shut  his 
eyes,  seeing  her  face  shining  in  the  uncertain 
flickering  candle  light,  as  she  bent  over  his  bed. 
He  could  not  think  she  had  died  ;  the  memory 
was  but  a  part  of  the  evil  dreams  that  had  come 
afterwards. 

He  said  to  himself  that  he  had  fallen  asleep 
and  dreamed  sorrow  and  agony,  and  he  wished 
to  forget  all  the  things  of  trouble.  He  would 
return  to  happy  days,  to  the  beloved  land,  to  the 
dear  and  friendly  paths  across  the  fields.  There 
was  the  paper,  white  before  him,  and  when  he 
chose  to  stir,  he  would  have  the  pleasure  of  read- 
ing his  work.  He  could  not  quite  recollect  what 
he  had  been  about,  but  he  was  somehow  con- 
scious that  he  had  been  successful  and  had 
brought  some  long  labour  to  a  worthy  ending. 
Presently  he  would  light  the  gas,  and  enjoy  the 
satisfaction  that  only  the  work  could  give  him,  but 
for  the  time  he  preferred  to  linger  in  the  darkness, 
and  to  think  of  himself  as  straying  from  stile  to 
stile  through  the  scented  meadows,  and  listening 
to  the  bright  brook  that  sang  to  the  alders. 

It  was  winter  now,  for  he  heard  the  rain  and 
the  wind,  and  the  swaying  of  the  trees,  but  in 
those  old  days  how  sweet  the  summer  had  been. 
254 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

The  great  hawthorn  bush  in  blossom,  like  a  white 
cloud  upon  the  earth,  had  appeared  to  him  in 
twilight,  he  had  lingered  in  the  enclosed  valley  to 
hear  the  nightingale,  a  voice  swelling  out  from 
the  rich  gloom,  from  the  trees  that  grew  around 
the  well.  The  scent  of  the  meadowsweet  was 
blown  to  him  across  the  bridge  of  years,  and  with 
it  came  the  dream  and  the  hope  and  the  longing, 
and  the  afterglow  red  in  the  sky,  and  the  marvel 
of  the  earth.  There  was  a  quiet  walk  that  he 
knew  so  well ;  one  went  up  from  a  little  green  by- 
road, following  an  unnamed  brooklet  scarce  a 
foot  wide,  but  yet  wandering  like  a  river,  gurgling 
over  its  pebbles,  with  its  dwarf  bushes  shading 
the  pouring  water.  One  went  through  the 
meadow  grass,  and  came  to  the  larch  wood  that 
grew  from  hill  to  hill  across  the  stream,  and  shone 
a  brilliant  tender  green,  and  sent  vague  sweet 
spires  to  the  flushing  sky.  Through  the  wood 
the  path  wound,  turning  and  dipping,  and  be- 
neath, the  brown  fallen  needles  of  last  year  were 
soft  and  thick,  and  the  resinous  cones  gave  out 
their  odour  as  the  warm  night  advanced,  and  the 
shadows  darkened.  It  was  quite  still ;  but  he 
stayed,  and  the  faint  song  of  the  brooklet  sounded 
like  the  echo  of  a  river  beyond  the  mountains. 

255 


THE   HILL  OF   DREAMS 

How  strange  it  was  to  look  into  the  wood,  to  see 
the  tall  straight  stems  rising,  pillar-like,  and  then 
the  dusk,  uncertain,  and  then  the  blackness.  So 
he  came  out  from  the  larch  wood,  from  the  green 
cloud  and  the  vague  shadow,  into  the  dearest  of 
all  hollows,  shut  in  on  one  side  by  the  larches  and 
before  him  by  high  violent  walls  of  turf,  like  the 
slopes  of  a  fort,  with  a  clear  line  dark  against  the 
twilight  sky,  and  a  weird  thorn  bush  that  grew 
large,  mysterious,  on  the  summit,  beneath  the 
gleam  of  the  evening  star. 

And  he  retraced  his  wanderings  in  those  deep 
old  lanes  that  began  from  the  common  road  and 
went  away  towards  the  unknown,  climbing  steep 
hills,  and  piercing  the  woods  of  shadows,  and 
dipping  down  into  valleys  that  seemed  virgin, 
unexplored,  secret  for  the  foot  of  man.  He 
entered  such  a  lane  not  knowing  where  it  might 
bring  him,  hoping  he  had  found  the  way  to  fairy- 
land, to  the  woods  beyond  the  world,  to  that 
vague  territory  that  haunts  all  the  dreams  of  a 
boy.  He  could  not  tell  where  he  might  be,  for  the 
high  banks  rose  steep,  and  the  great  hedges  made 
a  green  vault  above.  Marvellous  ferns  grew  rich 
and  thick  in  the  dark  red  earth,  fastening  their 
roots  about  the  roots  of  hazel  and  beech  and 
256 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

maple,  clustering  like  the  carven  capitals  of  a 
cathedral  pillar.  Down,  like  a  dark  shaft,  the 
lane  dipped  to  the  well  of  the  hills,  and  came 
amongst  the  limestone  rocks.  He  climbed  the 
bank  at  last,  and  looked  out  into  a  country  that 
seemed  for  a  moment  the  land  he  sought,  a 
mysterious  realm  with  unfamiliar  hills  and  valleys 
and  fair  plains  all  golden,  and  white  houses  radiant 
in  the  sunset  light. 

And  he  thought  of  the  steep  hillsides  where 
the  bracken  was  like  a  wood,  and  of  bare  places 
where  the  west  wind  sang  over  the  golden  gorse, 
of  still  circles  in  mid-lake,  of  the  poisonous  yew- 
tree  in  the  middle  of  the  wood,  shedding  its 
crimson  cups  on  the  dank  earth.  How  he  lingered 
by  certain  black  waterpools  hedged  in  on  every 
side  by  drooping  wych-elms  and  black-stemmed 
alders,  watching  the  faint  waves  widening  to 
the  banks  as  a  leaf  or  a  twig  dropped  from  the 
trees. 

And  the  whole  air  and  wonder  of  the  ancient 
forest  came  back  to  him.  He  had  found  his  way 
to  the  river  valley,  to  the  long  lovely  hollow 
between  the  hills,  and  went  up  and  up  beneath 
the  leaves  in  the  warm  hush  of  midsummer, 
glancing  back  now  and  again  through  the  green 
s  257 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

alleys,  to  the  river  winding  in  mystic  esses  be- 
neath, passing  hidden  glens  receiving  the  streams 
that  rushed  down  the  hillside,  ice-cold  from  the 
rock,  passing  the  immemorial  tumulus,  the  graves 
where  the  legionaries  waited  for  the  trumpet,  the 
grey  farmhouses  sending  the  blue  wreaths  of 
wood  smoke  into  the  still  air.  He  went  higher 
and  higher,  till  at  last  he  entered  the  long  passage 
of  the  Roman  road,  and  from  this,  the  ridge  and 
summit  of  the  wood,  he  saw  the  waves  of  green 
swell  and  dip  and  sink  towards  the  marshy  level 
and  the  gleaming  yellow  sea.  He  looked  on  the 
surging  forest,  and  thought  of  the  strange  deserted 
city  mouldering  into  a  petty  village  on  its  verge, 
of  its  encircling  walls  melting  into  the  turf,  of 
vestiges  of  an  older  temple  which  the  earth  had 
buried  utterly. 

It  was  winter  now,  for  he  heard  the  wail  of  the 
wind,  and  a  sudden  gust  drove  the  rain  against 
the  panes,  but  he  thought  of  the  bee's  song  in  the 
clover,  of  the  foxgloves  in  full  blossom,  of  the 
wild  roses,  delicate,  enchanting,  swaying  on  a 
long  stem  above  the  hedge.  He  had  been  in 
strange  places,  he  had  known  sorrow  and  desola- 
tion, and  had  grown  grey  and  weary  in  the  work 
of  letters,  but  he  lived  again  in  the  sweetness,  in 
258 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

the  clear  bright  air  of  early  morning,  when  the 
sky  was  blue  in  June,  and  the  mist  rolled  like 
a  white  sea  in  the  valley.  He  laughed  when  he 
recollected  that  he  had  sometimes  fancied  himself 
unhappy  in  those  days ;  in  those  days  when  he 
could  be  glad  because  the  sun  shone,  because  the 
wind  blew  fresh  on  the  mountain.  On  those 
bright  days  he  had  been  glad,  looking  at  the 
fleeting  and  passing  of  the  clouds  upon  the  hills, 
and  had  gone  up  higher  to  the  broad  dome  of  the 
mountain,  feeling  that  joy  went  up  before  him. 

He  remembered  how,  a  boy,  he  had  dreamed 
of  love,  of  an  adorable  and  ineffable  mystery 
which  transcended  all  longing  and  desire.  The 
time  had  come  when  all  the  wonder  of  the  earth 
seemed  to  prefigure  this  alone,  when  he  found  the 
symbol  of  the  Beloved  in  hill  and  wood  and 
stream,  and  every  flower  and  every  dark  pool 
discoursed  a  pure  ecstasy.  It  was  the  longing 
for  longing,  the  love  of  love,  that  had  come  to 
him  when  he  awoke  one  morning  just  before  the 
dawn,  and  for  the  first  time  felt  the  sharp  thrill  of 
passion. 

He  tried  in  vain  to  express  to  himself  the 
exquisite  joys  of  innocent  desire.  Even  now, 
after  troubled  years,  in  spite  of  some  dark  cloud 
259 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

that  overshadowed  the  background  of  his  thought, 
the  sweetness  of  the  boy's  imagined  pleasure 
came  like  a  perfume  into  his  reverie.  It  was  no 
love  of  a  woman  but  the  desire  of  womanhood, 
the  Eros  of  the  Unknown,  that  makes  the  heart 
tremble.  He  hardly  dreamed  that  such  a  love 
could  ever  be  satisfied,  that  the  thirst  of  beauty 
could  be  slaked.  He  shrank  from  all  contact  of 
actuality,  not  venturing  so  much  as  to  imagine 
the  inner  place  and  sanctuary  of  the  mysteries. 
It  was  enough  for  him  to  adore  in  the  outer 
court,  to  know  that  within,  in  the  sweet  gloom, 
were  the  vision  and  the  rapture,  the  altar  and  the 
sacrifice. 

He  remembered,  dimly,  the  passage  of  many 
heavy  years  since  that  time  of  hope  and  passion, 
but,  perhaps,  the  vague  shadow  would  pass  away, 
and  he  could  renew  the  boy's  thoughts,  the  un- 
formed fancies  that  were  part  of  the  bright  day, 
of  the  wild  roses  in  the  hedgerow.  All  other 
things  should  be  laid  aside,  he  would  let  them 
trouble  him  no  more  after  this  winter  night.  He 
saw  now  that  from  the  first  he  had  allowed  his 
imagination  to  bewilder  him,  to  create  a  fantastic 
world  in  which  he  suffered,  moulding  innocent 
forms  into  terror  and  dismay.  Vividly,  he  saw 
260 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

again  the  black  circle  of  oaks,  growing  in  a 
haggard  ring  upon  the  bastions  of  the  Roman 
fort.  The  noise  of  the  storm  without  grew  louder, 
and  he  thought  how  the  wind  had  come  up  the 
valley  with  the  sound  of  a  scream,  how  a  great 
tree  had  ground  its  boughs  together,  shuddering 
before  the  violent  blast.  Clear  and  distinct,  as  if 
he  were  standing  now  in  the  lane,  he  saw  the 
steep  slopes  surging  from  the  valley,  and  the 
black  crown  of  the  oaks  set  against  the  flaming 
sky,  against  a  blaze  and  glow  of  light  as  if  great 
furnace  doors  were  opened.  He  saw  the  fire  as  it 
were  smitten  about  the  bastions,  about  the  heaped 
mounds  that  guarded  the  fort,  and  the  crooked 
evil  boughs  seemed  to  writhe  in  the  blast  of  flame 
that  beat  from  heaven.  Strangely  with  the  sight 
of  the  burning  fort  mingled  the  impression  of  a 
dim  white  shape  floating  up  the  dusk  of  the  lane 
towards  him,  and  he  saw  across  the  valley  of  years 
a  girl's  face,  a  momentary  apparition  that  shone 
and  vanished  away. 

Then  there  was  a  memory  of  another  day,  of 
violent  summer,  of  white  farmhouse  walls  blazing 
in  the  sun,  and  a  far  call  from  the  reapers  in  the 
cornfields.  He  had  climbed  the  steep  slope  and 
penetrated  the  matted  thicket  and  lay  in  the  heat 
261 


THE    HIL'L   OF   DREAMS 

alone  on  the  soft  short  grass  that  grew  within  the 
fort.  There  was  a  cloud  of  madness,  and  con- 
fusion of  broken  dreams  that  had  no  meaning  or 
clue  but  only  an  indefinable  horror  and  defile- 
ment. He  had  fallen  asleep  as  he  gazed  at  the 
knotted  fantastic  boughs  of  the  stunted  brake 
about  him,  and  when  he  woke  he  was  ashamed, 
and  fled  away  fearing  that '  they '  would  pursue 
him.  He  did  not  know  who  '  they '  were,  but  it 
seemed  as  if  a  woman's  face  watched  him  from 
between  the  matted  boughs,  and  that  she  sum- 
moned to  her  side  awful  companions  who  had 
never  grown  old  through  all  the  ages. 

He  looked  up,  it  seemed,  at  a  smiling  face  that 
bent  over  him,  as  he  sat  in  the  cool  dark  kitchen 
of  the  old  farmhouse,  and  wondered  why  the 
sweetness  of  those  red  lips  and  the  kindness  of 
the  eyes  mingled  with  the  nightmare  in  the  fort, 
with  the  horrible  Sabbath  he  had  imagined  as  he 
lay  sleeping  on  the  hot  soft  turf.  He  had  allowed 
these  disturbed  fancies,  all  this  mad  wrack  of  terror 
and  shame  that  he  had  gathered  to  his  mind,  to 
trouble  him  for  too  long  a  time ;  presently  he 
would  light  up  the  room,  and  leave  all  the  old 
darkness  of  his  life  behind  him,  and  from  hence- 
forth he  would  walk  in  the  day. 
262 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

He  could  still  distinguish,  though  very  vaguely, 
the  pile  of  papers  before  him,  and  he  remembered, 
now,  that  he  had  finished  a  long  task  that  after- 
noon, before  he  fell  asleep.  He  could  not  trouble 
himself  to  recollect  the  exact  nature  of  the  work, 
but  he  was  sure  that  he  had  done  well ;  in  a  few 
minutes,  perhaps,  he  would  strike  a  match,  and 
read  the  title,  and  amuse  himself  with  his  own 
forgetfulness.  But  the  sight  of  the  papers  lying 
there  in  order  made  him  think  of  his  beginnings, 
of  those  first  unhappy  efforts  which  were  so  im- 
possible and  so  hopeless.  He  saw  himself  bending 
over  the  table  in  the  old  familiar  room,  desperately 
scribbling,  and  then  laying  down  his  pen  dis- 
mayed at  the  sad  results  on  the  page.  It  was  late 
at  night,  his  father  had  been  long  in  bed,  and  the 
house  was  still.  The  fire  was  almost  out,  with 
only  a  dim  glow  here  and  there  amongst  the 
cinders,  and  the  room  was  growing  chilly.  He 
rose  at  last  from  his  work  and  looked  out  on  a 
dim  earth  and  a  dark  and  cloudy  sky. 

Night  after  night  he  had  laboured  on,  per- 
severing in  his  effort,  even  through  the  cold  sick- 
ness of  despair,  when  every  line  was  doomed  as  it 
was  made.  Now,  with  the  consciousness  that  he 
knew  at  least  the  conditions  of  literature,  and 
263 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

that  many  years  of  thought  and  practice  had  given 
him  some  sense  of  language,  he  found  these  early 
struggles  both  pathetic  and  astonishing.  He 
could  not  understand  how  he  had  persevered  so 
stubbornly,  how  he  had  had  the  heart  to  begin  a 
fresh  page  when  so  many  folios  of  blotted,  painful 
effort  lay  torn,  derided,  impossible  in  their  utter 
failure.  It  seemed  to  him  that  it  must  have  been 
a  miracle  or  an  infernal  possession,  a  species  of 
madness,  that  had  driven  him  on,  every  day  dis- 
appointed, and  every  day  hopeful. 

And  yet  there  was  a  joyous  side  to  the  illusion. 
In  these  dry  days  that  he  lived  in,  when  he  had 
bought,  by  a  long  experience  and  by  countless 
hours  of  misery,  a  knowledge  of  his  limitations, 
of  the  vast  gulf  that  yawned  between  the  concep- 
tion and  the  work,  it  was  pleasant  to  think  of  a 
time  when  all  things  were  possible,  when  the  most 
splendid  design  seemed  an  affair  of  a  few  weeks. 
Now  he  had  come  to  a  frank  acknowledgment; 
so  far  as  he  was  concerned,  he  judged  every  book 
wholly  impossible  till  the  last  line  of  it  was 
written,  and  he  had  learnt  patience,  the  art  of 
sighing  and  putting  the  fine  scheme  away  in  the 
pigeon-hole  of  what  could  never  be.  But  to 
think  of  those  days  !  Then  one  could  plot  out  a 
264 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

book  that  should  be  more  curious  than  Rabelais, 
and  jot  down  the  outlines  of  a  romance  to  sur- 
pass Cervantes,  and  design  renaissance  tragedies 
and  volumes  of  contes,  and  comedies  of  the 
Restoration  ;  everything  was  to  be  done,  and  the 
masterpiece  was  always  the  rainbow  cup,  a  little 
way  before  him. 

He  touched  the  manuscript  on  the  desk,  and 
the  feeling  of  the  pages  seemed  to  restore  all  the 
papers  that  had  been  torn  so  long  ago.  It  was 
the  atmosphere  of  the  silent  room  that  returned, 
the  light  of  the  shaded  candle  falling  on  the 
abandoned  leaves.  This  had  been  painfully  ex- 
cogitated while  the  snowstorm  whirled  about  the 
lawn  and  filled  the  lanes,  this  was  of  the  summer 
night,  this  of  the  harvest  moon  rising  like  a  fire 
from  the  tithebarn  on  the  hill,  How  well  he  re- 
membered those  half-dozen  pages  of  which  he 
had  once  been  so  proud  ;  he  had  thought  out  the 
sentences  one  evening,  while  he  leaned  on  the 
foot-bridge  and  watched  the  brook  swim  across 
the  road.  Every  word  smelt  of  the  meadow- 
sweet that  grew  thick  upon  the  banks  ;  now,  as 
he  recalled  the  cadence  and  the  phrase  that 
had  seemed  so  charming,  he  saw  again  the 
ferns  beneath  the  vaulted  roots  of  the  beech, 
265 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

and  the  green  light  of  the  glowworm  in  the 
hedge. 

And  in  the  west  the  mountains  swelled  to  a 
great  dome,  and  on  the  dome  was  a  mound,  the 
memorial  of  some  forgotten  race,  that  grew  dark 
and  large  against  the  red  sky,  when  the  sun  set. 
He  had  lingered  below  it  in  the  solitude,  amongst 
the  winds,  at  evening,  far  away  from  home ;  and 
oh,  the  labour  and  the  vain  efforts  to  make  the 
form  of  it  and  the  awe  of  it  in  prose,  to  write 
the  hush  of  the  vast  hill,  and  the  sadness  of  the 
world  below  sinking  into  the  night,  and  the  mys- 
tery, the  suggestion  of  the  rounded  hillock,  huge 
against  the  magic  sky. 

He  had  tried  to  sing  in  words  the  music  that 
the  brook  sang,  and  the  sound  of  the  October 
wind  rustling  through  the  brown  bracken  on  the 
hill.  How  many  pages  he  had  covered  in  the 
effort  to  show  a  white  winter  world,  a  sun  without 
warmth  in  a  grey-blue  sky,  all  the  fields,  all  the 
land  white  and  shining,  and  one  high  summit 
where  the  dark  pines  towered,  still  in  the  still 
afternoon,  in  the  pale  violet  air. 

To  win  the  secret  of  words,  to  make  a  phrase 
that  would  murmur  of  summer  and  the  bee,  to 
summon  the  wind  into  a  sentence,  to  conjure  the 
266 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

odour  of  the  night  into  the  surge  and  fall  and 
harmony  of  a  line  ;  this  was  the  tale  of  the  long 
evenings,  of  the  candle  flame  white  upon  the 
paper  and  the  eager  pen. 

He  remembered  that  in  some  fantastic  book  he 
had  seen  a  bar  or  two  of  music,  and  beneath,  the 
inscription  that  here  was  the  musical  expression 
of  Westminster  Abbey.  His  boyish  effort  seemed 
hardly  less  ambitious,  and  he  no  longer  believed 
that  language  could  present  the  melody  and  the 
awe  and  the  loveliness  of  the  earth.  He  had 
long  known  that  he,  at  all  events,  would  have  to 
be  content  with  a  far  approach,  with  a  few  broken 
notes  that  might  suggest,  perhaps,  the  magistral 
everlasting  song  of  the  hill  and  the  streams. 

But  in  those  far  days  the  impossible  was  but  a 
part  of  wonderland  that  lay  before  him,  of  the 
world  beyond  the  wood  and  the  mountain.  All 
was  to  be  conquered,  all  was  to  be  achieved ;  he 
had  but  to  make  the  journey  and  he  would  find 
the  golden  world  and  the  golden  word,  and  hear 
those  songs  that  the  sirens  sang.  He  touched  the 
manuscript ;  whatever  it  was,  it  was  the  result  of 
painful  labour  and  disappointment,  not  of  the  old 
flush  of  hope,  but  it  came  of  weary  days,  of  cor- 
rection and  re-correction.  It  might  be  good  in  its 
267 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

measure  ;  but  afterwards  he  would  write  no  more 
for  a  time.  He  would  go  back  again  to  the 
happy  world  of  masterpieces,  to  the  dreams  of 
great  and  perfect  books,  written  in  an  ecstasy. 

Like  a  dark  cloud  from  the  sea  came  the 
memory  of  the  attempt  he  had  made,  of  the  poor 
piteous  history  that  had  once  embittered  his  life. 
He  sighed  and  said  alas,  thinking  of  his  folly,  of 
the  hours  when  he  was  shaken  with  futile,  miser- 
able rage.  Some  silly  person  in  London  had 
made  his  manuscript  more  saleable  and  had  sold 
it  without  rendering  an  account  of  the  profits,  and 
for  that  he  had  been  ready  to  curse  humanity. 
Black,  horrible,  as  the  memory  of  a  stormy  day, 
the  rage  of  his  heart  returned  to  his  mind,  and  he 
covered  his  eyes,  endeavouring  to  darken  the 
picture  of  terror  and  hate  that  shone  before  him. 
He  tried  to  drive  it  all  out  of  his  thought,  it 
vexed  him  to  remember  these  foolish  trifles ;  the 
trick  of  a  publisher,  the  small  pomposities  and 
malignancies  of  the  country  folk,  the  cruelty  of  a 
village  boy,  had  inflamed  him  almost  to  the  pitch 
of  madness.  His  heart  had  burnt  with  fury,  and 
when  he  looked  up  the  sky  was  blotched,  and 
scarlet  as  if  it  rained  blood. 

Indeed  he  had  almost  believed  that  blood  had 
268 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

rained  upon  him,  and  cold  blood  from  a  sacrifice 
in  heaven  ;  his  face  was  wet  and  chill  and  drip- 
ping, and  he  had  passed  his  hand  across  his  fore- 
head and  looked  at  it.  A  red  cloud  had  seemed 
to  swell  over  the  hill,  and  grow  great,  and  come 
near  to  him ;  he  was  but  an  ace  removed  from 
raging  madness. 

It  had  almost  come  to  that ;  the  drift  and  the 
breath  of  the  scarlet  cloud  had  well-nigh  touched 
him.  It  was  strange  that  he  had  been  so  deeply 
troubled  by  such  little  things,  and  strange  how 
after  all  the  years  he  could  still  recall  the  anguish 
and  rage  and  hate  that  shook  his  soul  as  with  a 
spiritual  tempest. 

The  memory  of  all  that  evening  was  wild  and 
confused ;  he  resolved  that  it  should  vex  him  no 
more,  that  now,  for  the  last  time,  he  would  let 
himself  be  tormented  by  the  past.  In  a  few 
minutes  he  would  rise  to  a  new  life,  and  forget  all 
the  storms  that  had  gone  over  him. 

Curiously,  every  detail  was  distinct  and  clear  in 
his  brain.  The  figure  of  the  doctor  driving  home, 
and  the  sound  of  the  few  words  he  had  spoken 
came  to  him  in  the  darkness,  through  the  noise  of 
the  storm  and  the  pattering  of  the  rain.  Then  he 
stood  upon  the  ridge  of  the  hill  and  saw  the 
269 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

smoke  drifting  up  from  the  ragged  roofs  of  Caer- 
maen,  in  the  evening  calm  ;  he  listened  to  the 
voices  mounting  thin  and  clear,  in  a  weird  tone, 
as  if  some  outland  folk  were  speaking  in  an  un- 
known tongue  of  awful  things. 

He  saw  the  gathering  darkness,  the  mystery  of 
twilight  changing  the  huddled  squalid  village  into 
an  unearthly  city,  into  some  dreadful  Atlantis, 
inhabited  by  a  ruined  race.  The  mist  falling 
fast,  the  gloom  that  seemed  to  issue  from  the 
black  depths  of  the  forest,  to  advance  palpably 
towards  the  walls,  were  shaped  before  him ;  and 
beneath,  the  river  wound,  snake-like,  about  the 
town,  swimming  to  the  flood  and  glowing  in  its 
still  pools  like  molten  brass.  And  as  the  water 
mirrored  the  afterglow  and  sent  ripples  and  gouts 
of  blood  against  the  shuddering  reeds,  there  came 
suddenly  the  piercing  trumpet-call,  the  loud 
reiterated  summons  that  rose  and  fell,  that  called 
and  recalled,  echoing  through  all  the  valley,  cry- 
ing to  the  dead  as  the  last  note  rang.  It  sum- 
moned the  legion  from  the  river  and  the  graves 
and  the  battlefield,  the  host  floated  up  from  the 
sea,  the  centuries  swarmed  about  the  eagles,  the 
array  was  set  for  the  last  great  battle,  behind 
the  leaguer  of  the  mist. 

270 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

He  could  imagine  himself  still  wandering 
through  the  dim,  unknown,  terrible  country,  gaz- 
ing affrighted  at  hills  and  woods  that  seemed  to 
have  put  on  an  unearthly  shape,  stumbling 
amongst  the  briars  that  caught  his  feet.  He  lost 
his  way  in  a  wild  country,  and  the  red  light  that 
blazed  up  from  the  furnace  on  the  mountains  only 
showed  him  a  mysterious  land,  in  which  he  strayed 
aghast,  with  the  sense  of  doom  weighing  upon 
him.  The  dry  mutter  of  the  trees,  the  sound  of 
an  unseen  brook,  made  him  afraid  as  if  the  earth 
spoke  of  his  sin,  and  presently  he  was  fleeing 
through  a  desolate  shadowy  wood,  where  a  pale 
light  flowed  from  the  mouldering  stumps,  a  dream 
of  light  that  shed  a  ghostly  radiance. 

And  then  again  the  dark  summit  of  the  Ro- 
man fort,  the  black  sheer  height  rising  above 
the  valley,  and  the  moonfire  streaming  around 
the  ring  of  oaks,  glowing  about  the  green  bas- 
tions that  guarded  the  thicket  and  the  inner 
place. 

The  room  in  which  he  sat  appeared  the  vision, 
the  trouble  of  the  wind  and  rain  without  was  but 
illusion,  the  noise  of  the  waves  in  the  seashell. 
Passion  and  tears  and  adoration  and  the  glories 
of  the  summer  night  returned,  and  the  calm  sweet 
271 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

face  of  the  woman  appeared,  and  he  thrilled  at 
the  soft  touch  of  her  hand  on  his  flesh. 

She  shone  as  if  she  had  floated  down  into  the 
lane  from  the  moon  that  swam  between  films  of 
cloud  above  the  black  circle  of  the  oaks.  She  led 
him  away  from  all  terror  and  despair  and  hate, 
and  gave  herself  to  him  with  rapture,  showing 
him  love,  kissing  his  tears  away,  pillowing  his 
cheek  upon  her  breast. 

His  lips  dwelt  upon  her  lips,  his  mouth  upon 
the  breath  of  her  mouth,  her  arms  were  strained 
about  him,  and  oh !  she  charmed  him  with  her 
voice,  with  sweet  kind  words,  as  she  offered  her 
sacrifice.  How  her  scented  hair  fell  down,  and 
floated  over  his  eyes,  and  there  was  a  marvellous 
fire  called  the  moon,  and  her  lips  were  aflame, 
and  her  eyes  shone  like  a  light  on  the  hills. 

All  beautiful  womanhood  had  come  to  him  in 
the  lane.  Love  had  touched  him  in  the  dusk  and 
had  flown  away,  but  he  had  seen  the  splendour 
and  the  glory,  and  his  eyes  had  seen  the  enchan- 
ted light. 

AVE  ATQUE  VALE 

The  old  words  sounded  in  his  ears  like  the 
ending  of  a  chant,  and  he  heard  the  music's  close. 
Once  only  in  his  weary  hapless   life,  once  the 
272 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

world  had  passed  away,  and  he  had  known  her, 
the  dear,  dear  Annie,  the  symbol  of  all  mystic 
womanhood. 

The  heaviness  of  languor  still  oppressed  him, 
holding  him  back  amongst  these  old  memories,  so 
that  he  could  not  stir  from  his  place.  Oddly, 
there  seemed  something  unaccustomed  about  the 
darkness  of  the  room,  as  if  the  shadows  he  had 
summoned  had  changed  the  aspect  of  the  walls. 
He  was  conscious  that  on  this  night  he  was  not 
altogether  himself;  fatigue,  and  the  weariness  of 
sleep,  and  the  waking  vision  had  perplexed  him. 
He  remembered  how  once  or  twice  when  he  was 
a  little  boy  he  had  opened  his  eyes  on  the  midnight 
darkness  startled  by  an  uneasy  dream,  and  had 
stared  with  a  frightened  gaze  into  nothingness, 
not  knowing  where  he  was,  all  trembling,  and 
breathing  quick,  till  he  touched  the  rail  of  his 
bed,  and  the  familiar  outlines  of  the  looking-glass 
and  the  chiffonier  began  to  glimmer  out  of  the 
gloom.  So  now  he  touched  the  pile  of  manuscript 
and  the  desk  at  which  he  had  worked  so  many 
hours,  and  felt  reassured,  though  he  smiled  at 
himself,  and  he  felt  the  old  childish  dread,  the 
longing  to  cry  out  for  some  one  to  bring  a  candle, 
and  show  him  that  he  really  was  in  his  own  room. 
T  273 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

He  glanced  up  for  an  instant,  expecting  to  see 
perhaps  the  glitter  of  the  brass  gas  jet  that  was 
fixed  in  the  wall,  just  beside  his  bureau,  but  it 
was  too  dark,  and  he  could  not  rouse  himself  and 
make  the  effort  that  would  drive  the  cloud  and 
the  muttering  thoughts  away. 

He  leant  back  again,  picturing  the  wet  street 
without,  the  rain  driving  like  fountain  spray 
about  the  gas  lamp,  the  shrilling  of  the  wind  on 
those  waste  places  to  the  north.  It  was  strange 
how  in  the  brick  and  stucco  desert  where  no 
trees  were,  he  all  the  time  imagined  the  noise 
of  tossing  boughs,  the  grinding  of  the  boughs 
together.  There  was  a  great  storm  and  tumult 
in  this  wilderness  of  London,  and  for  the  sound 
of  the  rain  and  the  wind  he  could  not  hear  the 
hum  and  jangle  of  the  trams,  and  the  jar  and 
shriek  of  the  garden  gates  as  they  opened  and 
shut.  But  he  could  imagine  his  street,  the  rain- 
swept desolate  curve  of  it,  as  it  turned  northward, 
and  beyond  the  empty  suburban  roads,  the 
twinkling  villa  windows,  the  ruined  field,  the 
broken  lane,  and  then  yet  another  suburb  rising, 
a  solitary  gas-lamp  glimmering  at  a  corner,  and 
the  plane  tree  lashing  its  boughs,  and  driving 
great  showers  against  the  glass. 
274 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

It  was  wonderful  to  think  of.  For  when  these 
remote  roads  were  ended  one  dipped  down  the 
hill  into  the  open  country,  into  the  dim  world 
beyond  the  glint  of  the  friendly  fires.  To-night, 
how  waste  they  were,  these  wet  roads,  edged  with 
the  red-brick  houses,  with  shrubs  whipped  by  the 
wind  against  one  another,  against  the  paling  and 
the  wall.  There  the  wind  swayed  the  great  elms 
scattered  on  the  sidewalk,  the  remnants  of  the 
old  stately  fields,  and  beneath  each  tree  was  a 
pool  of  wet,  and  a  torrent  of  raindrops  fell  with 
every  gust.  And  one  passed  through  the  red 
avenues,  perhaps  by  a  little  settlement  of  flickering 
shops,  and  passed  the  last  sentinel  wavering 
lamp,  and  the  road  became  a  ragged  lane,  and 
the  storm  screamed  from  hedge  to  hedge  across 
the  open  fields.  And  then,  beyond,  one  touched 
again  upon  a  still  remoter  avant-guard  of  London, 
an  island  amidst  the  darkness,  surrounded  by  its 
pale  of  twinkling,  starry  lights. 

He  remembered  his  wanderings  amongst  these 
outposts  of  the  town,  and  thought  how  desolate 
all  their  ways  must  be  to-night.  They  were 
solitary  in  wet  and  wind,  and  only  at  long 
intervals  some  one  pattered  and  hurried  along 
them,  bending  his  eyes  down  to  escape  the  drift 

275 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

of  rain.  Within  the  villas,  behind  the  close- 
drawn  curtains,  they  drew  about  the  fire,  and 
wondered  at  the  violence  of  the  storm,  listening 
for  each  great  gust  as  it  gathered  far  away,  and 
rocked  the  trees,  and  at  last  rushed  with  a  huge 
shock  against  their  walls  as  if  it  were  the  coming 
of  the  sea.  He  thought  of  himself  walking,  as 
he  had  often  walked,  from  lamp  to  lamp  on  such 
a  night,  treasuring  his  lonely  thoughts,  and 
weighing  the  hard  task  awaiting  him  in  his  room. 
Often  in  the  evening,  after  a  long  day's  labour,  he 
had  thrown  down  his  pen  in  utter  listlessness, 
feeling  that  he  could  struggle  no  more  with  ideas 
and  words,  and  he  had  gone  out  into  driving 
rain  and  darkness,  seeking  the  word  of  the 
enigma  as  he  tramped  on  and  on  beneath  these 
outer  battlements  of  London. 

Or  on  some  grey  afternoon  in  March  or  No- 
vember he  had  sickened  of  the  dull  monotony 
and  the  stagnant  life  that  he  saw  from  his  window, 
and  had  taken  his  design  with  him  to  the  lonely 
places,  halting  now  and  again  by  a  gate,  and 
pausing  in  the  shelter  of  a  hedge  through  which 
the  austere  wind  shivered,  while,  perhaps,  he 
dreamed  of  Sicily,  or  of  sunlight  on  the  Provencal 
olives.  Often  as  he  strayed  solitary  from  street  to 
276 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

field,  and  passed  the  Syrian  fig  tree  imprisoned 
in  Britain,  nailed  to  an  ungenial  wall,  the  solution 
of  the  puzzle  became  evident,  and  he  laughed 
and  hurried  home  eager  to  make  the  page  speak, 
to  note  the  song  he  had  heard  on  his  way. 

Sometimes  he  had  spent  many  hours  treading 
this  edge  and  brim  of  London,  now  lost  amidst 
the  dun  fields,  watching  the  bushes  shaken  by  the 
wind,  and  now  looking  down  from  a  height  whence 
he  could  see  the  dim  waves  of  the  town,  and  a 
barbaric  water  tower  rising  from  a  hill,  and  the 
snuff-coloured  cloud  of  smoke  that  seemed  blown 
up  from  the  streets  into  the  sky. 

There  were  certain  ways  and  places  that  he  had 
cherished ;  he  loved  a  great  old  common  that 
stood  on  high  ground,  curtained  about  with  ancient 
spacious  houses  of  red  brick,  and  their  cedarn 
gardens.  And  there  was  on  a  road  that  led  to 
this  common  a  space  of  ragged  uneven  ground 
with  a  pool  and  a  twisted  oak,  and  here  he  had 
often  stayed  in  autumn  and  looked  across  the 
mist  and  the  valley  at  the  great  theatre  of  the 
sunset,  where  a  red  cloud  like  a  charging  knight 
shone  and  conquered  a  purple  dragon  shape,  and 
golden  lances  glittered  in  a  field  of  faery  green. 

Or  sometimes,  when  the  unending  prospect  of 
277 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

trim,  monotonous,  modern  streets  had  wearied 
him,  he  had  found  an  immense  refreshment  in  the 
discovery  of  a  forgotten  hamlet,  left  in  a  hollow, 
while  all  new  London  pressed  and  surged  on 
every  side,  threatening  the  rest  of  the  red  roofs 
with  its  vulgar  growth.  These  little  peaceful 
houses,  huddled  together  beneath  the  shelter  of 
trees,  with  their  bulging  leaded  windows  and  un- 
even roofs,  somehow  brought  back  to  him  the 
sense  of  the  country,  and  soothed  him  with  the 
thought  of  the  old  farm-houses,  white  or  grey,  the 
homes  of  quiet  lives,  harbours  where,  perhaps,  no 
tormenting  thoughts  ever  broke  in. 

For  he  had  instinctively  determined  that  there 
was  neither  rest  nor  health  in  all  the  arid  waste 
of  streets  about  him.  It  seemed  as  if  in  those 
dull  rows  of  dwellings,  in  the  prim  new  villas  red 
and  white  and  staring,  there  must  be  a  leaven 
working  which  transformed  all  to  base  vulgarity. 
Beneath  the  dull  sad  slates,  behind  the  blistered 
doors,  love  turned  to  squalid  intrigue,  mirth  to 
drunken  clamour,  and  the  mystery  of  life  became 
a  common  thing ;  religion  was  sought  for  in  the 
greasy  piety  and  flatulent  oratory  of  the  Inde- 
pendent chapel,  the  stuccoed  nightmare  of  the 
Doric  columns.  Nothing  fine,  nothing  rare,  noth- 
278 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

ing  exquisite,  it  seemed,  could  exist  in  the  welter- 
ing suburban  sea,  in  the  habitations  which  had 
risen  from  the  stench  and  slime  of  the  brickfields. 
It  was  as  if  the  sickening  fumes  that  steamed 
from  the  burning  bricks  had  been  sublimed  into 
the  shape  of  houses,  and  those  who  lived  in 
these  grey  places  could  also  claim  kinship  with 
the  putrid  mud. 

Hence  he  had  delighted  in  the  few  remains  of 
the  past  that  he  could  find  still  surviving  on  the 
suburb's  edge,  in  the  grave  old  houses  that  stood 
apart  from  the  road,  in  the  mouldering  taverns  of 
the  eighteenth  century,  in  the  huddled  hamlets 
that  had  preserved  only  the  glow  and  the  sunlight 
of  all  the  years  that  had  passed  over  them.  It 
appeared  to  him  that  vulgarity,  and  greasiness  and 
squalor  had  come  with  a  flood,  that  not  only  the 
good  but  also  the  evil  in  man's  heart  had  been 
made  common  and  ugly,  that  a  sordid  scum  was 
mingled  with  all  the  springs,  of  death  as  of  life. 
It  would  be  alike  futile  to  search  amongst  these 
mean  two-storied  houses  for  a  splendid  sinner  as 
for  a  splendid  saint ;  the  very  vices  of  these 
people  smelt  of  cabbage  water  and  a  pothouse 
vomit. 

And  so  he  had  often  fled  away  from  the  serried 
279 


THE    HILL  OF   DREAMS 

maze  that  encircled  him,  seeking  for  the  old  and 
worn  and  significant  as  an  antiquary  looks  for  the 
fragments  of  the  Roman  temple  amidst  the 
modern  shops.  In  some  way  the  gusts  of  wind 
and  the  beating  rain  of  the  night  reminded  him 
of  an  old  house  that  had  often  attracted  him  with 
a  strange  indefinable  curiosity.  He  had  found  it 
on  a  grim  grey  day  in  March,  when  he  had  gone 
out  under  a  leaden-moulded  sky,  cowering  from 
a  dry  freezing  wind  that  brought  with  it  the 
gloom  and  the  doom  of  far  unhappy  Siberian 
plains.  More  than  ever  that  day  the  suburb  had 
oppressed  him  ;  insignificant,  detestable,  repulsive 
to  body  and  mind,  it  was  the  only  hell  that 
a  vulgar  age  could  conceive  or  make,  an  inferno 
created  not  by  Dante  but  by  the  jerry-builder. 
He  had  gone  out  to  the  north,  and  when  he  lifted 
up  his  eyes  again  he  found  that  he  had  chanced 
to  turn  up  by  one  of  the  little  lanes  that  still 
strayed  across  the  broken  fields.  He  had  never 
chosen  this  path  before  because  the  lane  at  its 
outlet  was  so  wholly  degraded  and  offensive, 
littered  with  rusty  tins  and  broken  crockery,  and 
hedged  in  with  a  paling  fashioned  out  of  scraps 
of  wire,  rotting  timber,  and  bending  worn-out 
rails.  But  on  this  day,  by  happy  chance,  he  had 
280 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

fled  from  the  high  road  by  the  first  opening  that 
offered,  and  he  no  longer  groped  his  way  amongst 
obscene  refuse,  sickened  by  the  bloated  bodies  of 
dead  dogs,  and  fetid  odours  from  unclean  decay, 
but  the  malpassage  had  become  a  peaceful  wind- 
ing lane,  with  warm  shelter  beneath  its  banks 
from  the  dismal  wind.  For  a  mile  he  had  walked 
on  quietly,  and  then  a  turn  in  the  road  showed 
him  a  little  glen  or  hollow,  watered  by  such  a  tiny 
rushing  brooklet  as  his  own  woods  knew,  and  be- 
yond, alas,  the  glaring  foreguard  of  a  '  new  neigh- 
bourhood ' ;  raw  red  villas,  semi-detached,  and 
then  a  row  of  lamentable  shops. 

But  as  he  was  about  to  turn  back,  in  the  hope 
of  finding  some  other  outlet,  his  attention  was 
charmed  by  a  small  house  that  stood  back  a  little 
from  the  road  on  his  right  hand.  There  had  been 
a  white  gate,  but  the  paint  had  long  faded  to  grey 
and  black,  and  the  wood  crumbled  under  the 
touch,  and  only  moss  marked  out  the  lines  of  the 
drive.  The  iron  railing  round  the  lawn  had  fallen, 
and  the  poor  flower-beds  were  choked  with  grass 
and  a  faded  growth  of  weeds.  But  here  and 
there  a  rosebush  lingered  amidst  suckers  that  had 
sprung  grossly  from  the  root,  and  on  each  side  of 
the  hall  door  were  box  trees,  untrimmed,  ragged, 
281 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

but  still  green.  The  slate  roof  was  all  stained 
and  livid,  blotched  with  the  drippings  of  a  great 
elm  that  stood  at  one  corner  of  the  neglected 
lawn,  and  marks  of  damp  and  decay  were  thick 
on  the  uneven  walls,  which  had  been  washed 
yellow  many  years  before.  There  was  a  porch  of 
trellis  work  before  the  door,  and  Lucian  had  seen 
it  rock  in  the  wind,  swaying  as  if  every  gust  must 
drive  it  down.  There  were  two  windows  on  the 
ground  floor,  one  on  each  of  the  door,  and  two 
above,  with  a  blind  space  where  a  central  window 
had  been  blocked  up. 

This  poor  and  desolate  house  had  fascinated 
him.  Ancient  and  poor  and  fallen,  disfigured  by 
the  slate  roof  and  the  yellow  wash  that  had  re- 
placed the  old  mellow  dipping  tiles  and  the 
warm  red  walls,  and  disfigured  again  by  spots 
and  patches  of  decay ;  it  seemed  as  if  its  happy 
days  were  for  ever  ended.  To  Lucian  it  appealed 
with  a  sense  of  doom  and  horror;  the  black 
streaks  that  crept  upon  the  walls,  and  the  green 
drift  upon  the  roof,  appeared  not  so  much  the 
work  of  foul  weather  and  dripping  boughs,  as  the 
outward  signs  of  evil  working  and  creeping  in 
the  lives  of  those  within. 

The  stage  seemed  to  him  decked  for  doom, 
282 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

painted  with  the  symbols  of  tragedy ;  and  he 
wondered  as  he  looked  whether  any  one  were  so 
unhappy  as  to  live  there  still.  There  were  torn 
blinds  in  the  windows,  but  he  had  asked  himself, 
who  could  be  so  brave  as  to  sit  in  that  room, 
darkened  by  the  dreary  box,  and  listen  of  winter 
nights  to  the  rain  upon  the  window,  and  the 
moaning  of  wind  amongst  the  tossing  boughs 
that  beat  against  the  roof. 

He  could  not  imagine  that  any  chamber  in 
such  a  house  was  habitable.  Here  the  dead  had 
lain,  through  the  white  blind  the  thin  light  had 
filtered  on  the  rigid  mouth,  and  still  the  floor 
must  be  wet  with  tears  and  still  that  great  rock- 
ing elm  echoed  the  groaning  and  the  sobs  of  those 
who  watched.  No  doubt,  the  damp  was  rising, 
and  the  odour  of  the  earth  filled  the  house,  and 
made  such  as  entered  draw  back,  foreseeing  the 
hour  of  death. 

Often  the  thought  of  this  strange  old  house 
had  haunted  him ;  he  had  imagined  the  empty 
rooms  where  a  heavy  paper  peeled  from  the  walls 
and  hung  in  dark  strips  ;  and  he  could  not  believe 
that  a  light  ever  shone  from  those  windows  that 
stared  black  and  glittering  on  the  neglected  lawn. 
But  to-night  the  wet  and  the  storm  seemed 
283 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

curiously  to  bring  the  image  of  the  place  before 
him,  and  as  the  wind  sounded  he  thought  how 
unhappy  those  must  be,  if  any  there  were,  who 
sat  in  the  musty  chambers  by  a  flickering  light, 
and  listened  to  the  elm-tree  moaning  and  beating 
and  weeping  on  the  walls. 

And  to-night  was  Saturday  night ;  and  there 
was  about  that  phrase  something  that  muttered 
of  the  condemned  cell,  of  the  agony  of  a  doomed 
man.  Ghastly  to  his  eyes  was  the  conception  of 
any  one  sitting  in  that  room  to  the  right  of  the 
door  behind  the  larger  box  tree,  where  the  wall 
was  cracked  above  the  window  and  smeared  with 
a  black  stain  in  an  ugly  shape. 

He  knew  how  foolish  it  had  been  in  the  first 
place  to  trouble  his  mind  with  such  conceits  of  a 
dreary  cottage  on  the  outskirts  of  London.  And 
it  was  more  foolish  now  to  meditate  these  things, 
fantasies,  feigned  forms,  the  issue  of  a  sad  mood 
and  a  bleak  day  of  spring.  For  soon,  in  a  few 
moments,  he  was  to  rise  to  a  new  life.  He  was 
but  reckoning  up  the  account  of  his  past,  and 
when  the  light  came  he  was  to  think  no  more  of 
sorrow  and  heaviness,  of  real  or  imagined  terrors. 
He  had  stayed  too  long  in  London,  and  he  would 
once  more  taste  the  breath  of  the  hills,  and  see  the 
284 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

river  winding  in  the  long  lovely  valley ;  ah !  he 
would  go  home. 

Something  like  a  thrill,  the  thrill  of  fear,  passed 
over  him  as  he  remembered  that  there  was  no 
home.  It  was  in  the  winter,  a  year  and  a  half 
after  his  arrival  in  town,  that  he  had  suffered  the 
loss  of  his  father.  He  lay  for  many  days  pros- 
trate, overwhelmed  with  sorrow  and  with  the 
thought  that  now  indeed  he  was  utterly  alone  in 
the  world.  Miss  Deacon  was  to  live  with  another 
cousin  in  Yorkshire ;  the  old  home  was  at  last 
ended  and  done.  He  felt  sorry  that  he  had  not 
written  more  frequently  to  his  father  :  there  were 
things  in  his  cousin's  letters  that  had  made  his 
heart  sore.  '  Your  poor  father  was  always  looking 
for  your  letters,'  she  wrote,  'they  used  to  cheer 
him  so  much.  He  nearly  broke  down  when 
you  sent  him  that  money  last  Christmas ;  he  got 
it  into  his  head  that  you  were  starving  yourself  to 
send  it  him.  He  was  hoping  so  much  that  you 
would  have  come  down  this  Christmas,  and  kept 
asking  me  about  the  plum-puddings  months  ago.' 

It  was  not  only  his  father  that  had  died,  but 

with  him  the  last  strong  link  was  broken,  and  the 

past  life,  the  days  of  his  boyhood,  grew  faint  as  a 

dream.     With  his  father  his  mother  died  again, 

285 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

and  the  long  years  died,  the  time  of  his  inno- 
cence, the  memory  of  affection.  He  was  sorry 
that  his  letters  had  gone  home  so  rarely ;  it  hurt 
him  to  imagine  his  father  looking  out  when  the 
post  came  in  the  morning,  and  forced  to  be  sad 
because  there  was  nothing.  But  he  had  never 
thought  that  his  father  valued  the  few  lines  that 
he  wrote,  and  indeed  it  was  often  difficult  to  know 
what  to  say.  It  would  have  been  useless  to  write 
of  those  agonising  nights  when  the  pen  seemed 
an  awkward  and  outlandish  instrument,  when 
every  effort  ended  in  shameful  defeat,  or  of  the 
happier  hours  when  at  last  wonder  appeared  and 
the  line  glowed,  crowned  and  exalted.  To  poor 
Mr.  Taylor  such  tales  would  have  seemed  but 
trivial  histories  of  some  Oriental  game,  like  an  odd 
story  from  a  land  where  men  have  time  for  the 
infinitely  little,  and  can  seriously  make  a  science  of 
arranging  blossoms  in  a  jar,  and  discuss  perfumes 
instead  of  politics.  It  would  have  been  useless  to 
write  to  the  rectory  of  his  only  interest,  and  so  he 
wrote  seldom. 

And  then  he  had  been  sorry  because  he  could 

never  write  again  and  never  see  his  home.     He 

had  wondered  whether  he  would  have  gone  down 

to  the  old  place  at  Christmas,  if  his  father  had 

286 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

lived.  It  was  curious  how  common  things  evoked 
the  bitterest  griefs,  but  his  father's  anxiety  that 
the  plum-pudding  should  be  good,  and  ready  for 
him,  had  brought  the  tears  into  his  eyes.  He 
could  hear  him  saying  in  a  nervous  voice  that 
attempted  to  be  cheerful :  '  I  suppose  you  will  be 
thinking  of  the  Christmas  puddings  soon,  Jane ; 
you  remember  how  fond  Lucian  used  to  be  of 
plum-pudding.  I  hope  we  shall  see  him  this 
December.'  No  doubt  poor  Miss  Deacon  paled 
with  rage  at  the  suggestion  that  she  should 
make  Christmas  pudding  in  July;  and  returned 
a  sharp  answer ;  but  it  was  pathetic.  The  wind 
wailed,  and  the  rain  dashed  and  beat  again  and 
again  upon  the  window.  He  imagined  that  all 
his  thoughts  of  home,  of  the  old  rectory  amongst 
the  elms,  had  conjured  into  his  mind  the  sound 
of  the  storm  upon  the  trees,  for,  to-night,  very 
clearly  he  heard  the  creaking  of  the  boughs,  the 
noise  of  boughs  moaning  and  beating  and  weeping 
on  the  walls,  and  even  a  pattering  of  wet,  on  wet 
earth,  as  if  there  were  a  shrub  near  the  window 
that  shook  off  the  raindrops,  before  the  gust. 

That  thrill,  as  it  were  a  shudder  of  fear,  passed 
over  him  again,  and  he  knew  not  what  had  made 
him  afraid.     There  was  some  dark  shadow  on  his 
287 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

mind  that  saddened  him,  it  seemed  as  if  a  vague 
memory  of  terrible  days  hung  like  a  cloud  over 
his  thought,  but  it  was  all  indefinite,  perhaps  the 
last  grim  and  ragged  edge  of  the  melancholy 
wrack  that  had  swelled  over  his  life  and  the 
bygone  years.  He  shivered  and  tried  to  rouse 
himself  and  drive  away  the  sense  of  dread  and 
shame  that  seemed  so  real  and  so  awful,  and  yet 
he  could  not  grasp  it.  But  the  torpor  of  sleep, 
the  burden  of  the  work  that  he  had  ended  a  few 
hours  before  still  weighed  down  his  limbs  and 
bound  his  thoughts.  He  could  scarcely  believe 
that  he  had  been  busy  at  his  desk  a  little  while 
ago,  and  that  just  before  the  winter  day  closed  in 
and  the  rain  began  to  fall  he  had  laid  down  the 
pen  with  a  sigh  of  relief,  and  had  slept  in  his 
chair.  It  was  rather  as  if  he  had  slumbered 
deeply  through  a  long  and  weary  night,  as  if  an 
awful  vision  of  flame  and  darkness  and  the  worm 
that  dieth  not  had  come  to  him  sleeping.  But  he 
would  dwell  no  more  on  the  darkness ;  he  went 
back  to  the  early  days  in  London  when  he  had 
said  farewell  to  the  hills  and  to  the  waterpools, 
and  had  set  to  work  in  this  little  room  in  the 
dingy  street. 

How  he  had  toiled  and  laboured  at  the  desk 
288 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

before  him !  He  had  put  away  the  old  wild 
hopes  of  the  masterpiece  conceived  and  executed 
in  a  fury  of  inspiration,  wrought  out  in  one  white 
heat  of  creative  joy ;  it  was  enough  if  by  dint  of 
long  perseverance  and  singleness  of  desire  he 
could  at  last,  in  pain  and  agony  and  despair, 
after  failure  and  disappointment  and  effort  con- 
stantly renewed,  fashion  something  of  which  he 
need  not  be  ashamed.  He  had  put  himself  to 
school  again,  and  had,  with  what  patience  he 
could  command,  ground  his  teeth  into  the  rudi- 
ments, resolved  that  at  last  he  would  tear  out  the 
heart  of  the  mystery.  They  were  good  nights  to 
remember,  these ;  he  was  glad  to  think  of  the 
little  ugly  room,  with  its  silly  wall-paper  and  its 
'  bird's-eye '  furniture,  lighted  up,  while  he  sat  at 
the  bureau  and  wrote  on  into  the  cold  stillness  of 
the  London  morning,  when  the  flickering  lamp- 
light and  the  daystar  shone  together.  It  was  an 
interminable  labour,  and  he  had  always  known  it 
to  be  as  hopeless  as  alchemy.  The  gold,  the 
great  and  glowing  masterpiece,  would  never  shine 
amongst  the  dead  ashes  and  smoking  efforts  of 
the  crucible,  but  in  the  course  of  the  life,  in  the 
interval  between  the  failures,  he  might  possibly 
discover  curious  things. 

u  289 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

These  were  the  good  nights  that  he  could  look 
back  on  without  any  fear  or  shame,  when  he  had 
been  happy  and  content  on  a  diet  of  bread  and 
tea  and  tobacco,  and  could  hear  of  some  im- 
becility passing  into  its  hundredth  thousand,  and 
laugh  cheerfully — if  only  that  last  page  had  been 
imagined  aright,  if  the  phrases  noted  in  the  still 
hours  rang  out  their  music  when  he  read  them  in 
the  morning.  He  remembered  the  drolleries  and 
fantasies  that  the  worthy  Miss  Deacon  used  to 
write  to  him,  and  how  he  had  grinned  at  her 
words  of  reproof,  admonition,  and  advice.  She 
had  once  instigated  Dolly  fils  to  pay  him  a  visit, 
and  that  young  prop  of  respectability  had  talked 
about  the  extraordinary  running  of  Bolter  at  the 
Scurragh  meeting  in  Ireland  ;  and  then,  glancing 
at  Lucian's  books,  had  inquired  whether  any  of 
them  had  '  warm  bits.'  He  had  been  kind  though 
patronising,  and  seemed  to  have  moved  freely  in 
the  most  brilliant  society  of  Stoke  Newington. 
He  had  not  been  able  to  give  any  information  as 
to  the  present  condition  of  Edgar  Allan  Poe's  old 
school.  It  appeared  eventually  that  his  report  at 
home  had  not  been  a  very  favourable  one,  for  no 
invitation  to  high  tea  had  followed,  as  Miss 
Deacon  had  hoped.  The  Dollys  knew  many 
290 


THE   HILL   OF  DREAMS 

nice  people,  who  were  well  off,  and  Lucian's 
cousin,  as  she  afterwards  said,  had  done  her  best 
to  introduce  him  to  the  beau  monde  of  those 
northern  suburbs. 

But  after  the  visit  of  the  young  Dolly,  with  what 
joy  he  had  returned  to  the  treasures  which  he  had 
concealed  from  profane  eyes.  He  had  looked  out 
and  seen  his  visitor  on  board  the  tram  at  the 
street  corner,  and  he  laughed  out  loud,  and  locked 
his  door.  There  had  been  moments  when  he  was 
lonely,  and  wished  to  hear  again  the  sound  of 
friendly  speech ;  but  after  such  an  irruption  of 
suburban  futility,  it  was  a  keen  delight  to  feel 
that  he  was  secure  on  his  tower,  that  he  could 
absorb  himself  in  his  wonderful  task  as  safe  and 
silent  as  if  he  were  in  mid-desert. 

But  there  was  one  period  that  he  dared  not 
revive ;  he  could  not  bear  to  think  of  those  weeks 
of  desolation  and  terror  in  the  winter  after  his 
coming  to  London.  His  mind  was  sluggish,  and 
he  could  not  quite  remember  how  many  years 
had  passed  since  that  dismal  experience ;  it 
sounded  all  an  old  story,  but  yet  it  was  still 
vivid,  a  flaming  scroll  of  terror  from  which  he 
turned  his  eyes  away.  One  awful  scene  glowed 
into  his  memory,  and  he  could  not  shut  out  the 
291 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

sight  of  an  orgy,  of  dusky  figures  whirling  in  a 
ring,  of  lurid  naphtha  flares  blazing  in  the  dark- 
ness, of  great  glittering  lamps,  like  infernal 
thuribles,  very  slowly  swaying  in  a  violent  blast 
of  air,  And  there  was  something  else,  something 
which  he  could  not  remember,  but  it  filled  him 
with  terror,  but  it  slunk  in  the  dark  places  of  his 
soul,  as  a  wild  beast  crouches  in  the  depths  of 
a  cave. 

Again,  and  without  reason,  he  began  to  image 
to  himself  that  old  mouldering  house  in  the  field. 
With  what  a  loud  incessant  noise  the  wind  must 
be  clamouring  about  on  this  fearful  night,  how 
the  great  elm  swayed  and  cried  in  the  storm,  and 
the  rain  dashed  and  pattered  on  the  windows,  and 
dripped  on  the  sodden  earth  from  the  shaking 
shrubs  beside  the  door.  He  moved  uneasily  on 
his  chair,  and  struggled  to  put  the  picture  out  of 
his  thoughts  ;  but  in  spite  of  himself  he  saw  the 
stained  uneven  walls,  that  ugly  blot  of  mildew 
above  the  window,  and  perhaps  a  feeble  gleam  of 
light  filtered  through  the  blind,  and  some  one, 
unhappy  above  all  and  for  ever  lost,  sat  within 
the  dismal  room.  Or  rather,  every  window  was 
black,  without  a  glimmer  of  hope,  and  he  who 
was  shut  in  thick  darkness  heard  the  wind  and 
292 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

the  rain,  and  the  noise  of  the  elm-tree  moaning 
and  beating  and  weeping  on  the  walls. 

For  all  his  effort  the  impression  would  not  leave 
him,  and  as  he  sat  before  his  desk  looking  into 
the  vague  darkness  he  could  almost  see  that 
chamber  which  he  had  so  often  imagined ;  the 
low  whitewashed  ceiling  held  up  by  a  heavy 
beam,  the  smears  of  smoke  and  long  usage,  the 
cracks  and  fissures  of  the  plaster.  Old  furniture, 
shabby,  deplorable,  battered,  stood  about  the 
room ;  there  was  a  horsehair  sofa  worn  and 
tottering,  and  a  dismal  paper,  patterned  in  livid 
red,  blackened  and  mouldered  near  the  floor,  and 
peeled  off  and  hung  in  strips  from  the  dank  walls. 
And  there  was  that  odour  of  decay,  of  the  rank 
soil  steaming,  of  rotting  wood,  a  vapour  that 
choked  the  breath  and  made  the  heart  full  of  fear 
and  heaviness. 

Lucian  again  shivered  with  a  thrill  of  dread ; 
he  was  afraid  that  he  had  overworked  himself  and 
that  he  was  suffering  from  the  first  symptoms  of 
grave  illness.  His  mind  dwelt  on  confused  and 
terrible  recollections,  and  with  a  mad  ingenuity 
gave  form  and  substance  to  phantoms  ;  and  even 
now  he  drew  a  long  breath,  almost  imagining 
that  the  air  in  his  room  was  heavy  and  noisome, 
293 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

that  it  entered  his  nostrils  with  some  taint  of  the 
crypt.  And  his  body  was  still  languid,  and 
though  he  made  a  half  motion  to  rise  he  could 
not  find  enough  energy  for  the  effort,  and  he  sank 
again  into  the  chair.  At  all  events,  he  would 
think  no  more  of  that  sad  house  in  the  field ;  he 
would  return  to  those  long  struggles  with  letters, 
to  the  happy  nights  when  he  had  gained  victories. 
He  remembered  something  of  his  escape  from 
the  desolation  and  the  worse  than  desolation  that 
had  obsessed  him  during  that  first  winter  in 
London.  He  had  gone  free  one  bleak  morning 
in  February,  and  after  those  dreary  terrible  weeks 
the  desk  and  the  heap  and  litter  of  papers  had 
once  more  engulfed  and  absorbed  him.  And  in 
the  succeeding  summer,  of  a  night  when  he  lay 
awake  and  listened  to  the  birds,  shining  images 
came  wantonly  to  him.  For  an  hour,  while  the 
dawn  brightened,  he  had  felt  the  presence  of  an 
age,  the  resurrection  of  the  life  that  the  green 
fields  had  hidden,  and  his  heart  stirred  for  joy 
when  he  knew  that  he  held  and  possessed  all  the 
loveliness  that  had  so  long  mouldered.  He  could 
scarcely  fall  asleep  for  eager  and  leaping  thoughts, 
and  as  soon  as  his  breakfast  was  over  he  went  out 
and  bought  paper  and  pens  of  a  certain  celestial 
294 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

stationer  in  Netting  Hill.  The  street  was  not 
changed  as  he  passed  to  and  fro  on  his  errand, 
The  rattling  wagons  jolted  by  at  intervals,  a  rare 
hansom  came  spinning  down  from  London,  there 
sounded  the  same  hum  and  jangle  of  the  gliding 
trams.  The  languid  life  of  the  pavement  was 
unaltered;  a  few  people,  unclassed,  without  salience 
or  possible  description,  lounged  and  walked  from 
east  to  west,  and  from  west  to  east,  or  slowly 
dropped  into  the  byways  to  wander  in  the  black 
waste  to  the  north,  or  perhaps  to  go  astray  in  the 
systems  that  stretched  towards  the  river.  He 
glanced  down  these  by-roads  as  he  passed,  and 
was  astonished,  as  always,  at  their  mysterious 
and  desert  aspect.  Some  were  utterly  empty; 
lines  of  neat,  appalling  residences,  trim  and  gar- 
nished as  if  for  occupation,  edging  the  white 
glaring  road ;  and  not  a  soul  was  abroad,  and 
not  a  sound  broke  their  stillness.  It  was  a 
picture  of  the  desolation  of  midnight  lighted  up, 
but  empty  and  waste  as  the  most  profound  and 
solemn  hours  before  the  day.  Other  of  these 
by-roads,  of  older  settlement,  were  furnished  with 
more  important  houses,  standing  far  back  from 
the  pavement,  each  in  a  little  wood  of  greenery, 
and  thus  one  might  look  down  as  through  a  forest 
295 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

vista,  and  see  a  way  smooth  and  guarded  with 
low  walls  and  yet  untrodden,  and  all  a  leafy  silence. 
Here  and  there  in  some  of  these  echoing  roads  a 
figure  seemed  lazily  advancing  in  the  distance, 
hesitating  and  delaying,  as  if  lost  in  the  labyrinth. 
It  was  difficult  to  say  which  were  the  more 
dismal,  these  deserted  streets  that  wandered  away 
to  right  and  left,  or  the  great  main  thoroughfare 
with  its  narcotic  and  shadowy  life.  For  the 
latter  appeared  vast,  interminable,  grey,  and  those 
who  travelled  by  it  were  scarcely  real,  the  bodies 
of  the  living,  but  rather  the  uncertain  and  misty 
shapes  that  come  and  go  across  the  desert  in  an 
Eastern  tale,  when  men  look  up  from  the  sand 
and  see  a  caravan  pass  them,  all  in  silence,  with- 
out a  cry  or  a  greeting.  So  they  passed  and 
repassed  each  other  on  those  pavements,  appear- 
ing and  vanishing,  each  intent  on  his  own  secret, 
and  wrapped  in  obscurity.  One  might  have 
sworn  that  not  a  man  saw  his  neighbour  who 
met  him  or  jostled  him,  that  here  every  one  was 
a  phantom  for  the  other,  though  the  lines  of  their 
paths  crossed  and  recrossed,  and  their  eyes  stared 
like  the  eyes  of  live  men.  When  two  went  by  to- 
gether, they  mumbled  and  cast  distrustful  glances 
behind  them  as  though  afraid  all  the  world  was 
296 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

an  enemy,  and  the  pattering  of  feet  was  like  the 
noise  of  a  shower  of  rain.  Curious  appearances 
and  simulations  of  life  gathered  at  points  in  the 
road,  for  at  intervals  the  villas  ended  and  shops 
began  in  a  dismal  row,  and  looked  so  hopeless 
that  one  wondered  who  could  buy.  There  were 
women  fluttering  uneasily  about  the  greengrocers, 
and  shabby  things  in  rusty  black  touched  and 
retouched  the  red  lumps  that  an  unshaven  butcher 
offered,  and  already  in  the  corner  public  there 
was  a  confused  noise,  with  a  tossing  of  voices  that 
rose  and  fell  like  a  Jewish  chant,  with  the  sense- 
less stir  of  marionettes  jerked  into  an  imitation 
of  gaiety.  Then,  in  crossing  a  side  street  that 
seemed  like  grey  mid- winter  in  stone,  he  trespassed 
from  one  world  to  another,  for  an  old  decayed 
house  amidst  its  garden  held  the  opposite  corner. 
The  laurels  had  grown  into  black  skeletons, 
patched  with  green  drift,  the  ilex  gloomed  over 
the  porch,  the  deodar  had  blighted  the  flower- 
beds. Dark  ivies  swarmed  over  an  elm-tree,  and 
a  brown  clustering  fungus  sprang  in  gross  masses 
on  the  lawn,  showing  where  the  roots  of  dead 
trees  mouldered.  The  blue  verandah,  the  blue 
balcony  over  the  door,  had  faded  to  grey,  and  the 
stucco  was  blotched  with  ugly  marks  of  weather, 
297 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

and  a  dank  smell  of  decay,  that  vapour  of  black 
rotten  earth  in  old  town  gardens,  hung  heavy 
about  the  gates.  And  then  a  row  of  musty  villas 
had  pushed  out  in  shops  to  the  pavement,  and 
the  things  in  faded  black  buzzed  and  stirred 
about  the  limp  cabbages,  and  the  red  lumps  of 
meat. 

It  was  the  same  terrible  street,  whose  pavements 
he  had  trodden  so  often,  where  sunshine  seemed 
but  a  gaudy  light,  where  the  fume  of  burning 
bricks  always  drifted.  On  black  winter  nights  he 
had  seen  the  sparse  lights  glimmering  through 
the  rain  and  drawing  close  together,  as  the  dreary 
road  vanished  in  long  perspective.  Perhaps  this 
was  its  most  appropriate  moment,  when  nothing 
of  its  smug  villas  and  skeleton  shops  remained 
but  the  bright  patches  of  their  windows,  when  the 
old  house  amongst  its  mouldering  shrubs  was  but 
a  dark  cloud,  and  the  streets  to  north  and  south 
seemed  like  starry  wastes,  beyond  them  the  black- 
ness of  infinity.  Always  in  the  daylight  it  had 
been  to  him  abhorred  and  abominable,  and  its 
grey  houses  and  purlieus  had  been  fungus-like 
sproutings,  an  efflorescence  of  horrible  decay. 

But  on  that  bright  morning  neither  the  dreadful 
street  nor  those  who  moved  about  it  appalled 
298 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

him.  He  returned  joyously  to  his  den,  and 
reverently  laid  out  the  paper  on  his  desk.  The 
world  about  him  was  but  a  grey  shadow  hovering 
on  a  shining  wall ;  its  noises  were  faint  as  the 
rustling  of  trees  in  a  distant  wood.  The  lovely 
and  exquisite  forms  of  those  who  served  the 
Amber  Venus  were  his  distinct,  clear,  and 
manifest  visions,  and  for  one  amongst  them  who 
came  to  him  in  a  fire  of  bronze  hair  his  heart 
stirred  with  the  adoration  of  love.  She  it  was 
who  stood  forth  from  all  the  rest  and  fell  down 
prostrate  before  the  radiant  form  in  amber, 
drawing  out  her  pins  in  curious  gold,  her  glowing 
brooches  of  enamel,  and  pouring  from  a  silver 
box  all  her  treasure  of  jewels  and  precious  stones, 
chrysoberyl  and  sardonyx,  opal  and  diamond, 
topaz  and  pearl.  And  then  she  stripped  from  her 
body  her  precious  robes  and  stood  before  the 
goddess  in  the  glowing  mist  of  her  hair,  praying 
that  to  her  who  had  given  all  and  came  naked  to 
the  shrine,  love  might  be  given,  and  the  grace  of 
Venus.  And  when  at  last,  after  strange  ad- 
ventures, her  prayer  was  granted,  then  when  the 
sweet  light  came  from  the  sea,  and  her  lover 
turned  at  dawn  to  that  bronze  glory,  he  saw  beside 
him  a  little  statuette  of  amber.  And  in  the 
299 


THE   HILL   OF  DREAMS 

shrine,  far  in  Britain  where  the  black  rains  stained 
the  marble,  they  found  the  splendid  and  sump- 
tuous statue  of  the  Golden  Venus,  the  last  fine 
robe  of  silk  that  the  lady  had  dedicated  falling 
from  her  fingers,  and  the  jewels  lying  at  her  feet. 
And  her  face  was  like  the  lady's  face  when  the 
sun  had  brightened  it  on  that  day  of  her  devotion. 

The  bronze  mist  glimmered  before  Lucian's 
eyes ;  he  felt  as  though  the  soft  floating  hair 
touched  his  forehead  and  his  lips  and  his  hands. 
The  fume  of  burning  bricks,  the  reek  of  cabbage 
water,  never  reached  his  nostrils  that  were  filled 
with  the  perfume  of  rare  unguents,  with  the  breath 
of  the  violet  sea  in  Italy.  His  pleasure  was  an 
inebriation,  an  ecstasy  of  joy  that  destroyed  all 
the  vile  Hottentot  kraals  and  mud  avenues  as  with 
one  white  lightning  flash,  and  through  the  hours 
of  that  day  he  sat  enthralled,  not  contriving  a 
story  with  patient  art,  but  rapt  into  another  time, 
and  entranced  by  the  argent  gleam  in  the  lady's 
eyes. 

The  little  tale  of  The  Amber  Statuette  had  at 
last  issued  from  a  humble  office  in  the  spring  after 
his  father's  death.  The  author  was  utterly  un- 
known ;  the  author's  Murray  was  a  wholesale 
stationer  and  printer  in  process  of  development, 
300 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

so  that  Lucian  was  astonished  when  the  book 
became  a  moderate  success.  The  reviewers  had 
been  sadly  irritated,  and  even  now  he  recollected 
with  cheerfulness  an  article  in  an  influential  daily 
paper,  an  article  pleasantly  headed :  '  Where  are 
the  disinfectants  ? ' 

And  then but  all  the  months  afterwards 

seemed  doubtful,  there  were  only  broken  revela- 
tions of  the  laborious  hours  renewed,  and  the 
white  nights  when  he  had  seen  the  moonlight  fade 
and  the  gaslight  grow  wan  at  the  approach  of 
dawn. 

He  listened.  Surely  that  was  the  sound  of  rain 
falling  on  sodden  ground,  the  heavy  sound  of  great 
swollen  drops  driven  down  from  wet  leaves  by  the 
gust  of  wind,  and  then  again  the  strain  of  boughs 
sang  above  the  tumult  of  the  air,  there  was  a 
doleful  noise  as  if  the  storm  shook  the  masts  of  a 
ship.  He  had  only  to  get  up  and  look  out  of  the 
window  and  he  would  see  the  treeless  empty 
street,  and  the  rain  starring  the  puddles  under 
the  gas-lamp,  but  he  would  wait  a  little  while. 

He  tried  to  think  why,  in  spite  of  all  his  reso- 
lutions, a  dark  horror  seemed  to  brood  more  and 
more  over  all  his  mind.  How  often  he  had  sat 
and  worked  on  just  such  nights  as  this,  contented 
301 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

if  the  words  were  in  accord  though  the  wind 
might  wail,  though  the  air  were  black  with  rain. 
Even  about  the  little  book  that  he  had  made 
there  seemed  some  taint,  some  shuddering 
memory,  that  came  to  him  across  the  gulf  of 
forgetfulness.  Somehow  the  remembrance  of  the 
offering  to  Venus,  of  the  phrases  that  he  had  so 
lovingly  invented,  brought  back  again  the  dusky 
figures  that  danced  in  the  orgy,  beneath  the 
brassy  glittering  lamps ;  and  again  the  naphtha 
flares  showed  the  way  to  the  sad  house  in  the 
fields,  and  the  red  glare  lit  up  the  mildewed  walls 
and  the  black  hopeless  windows.  He  gasped  for 
breath,  he  seemed  to  inhale  a  heavy  air  that 
reeked  of  decay  and  rottenness,  and  the  odour  of 
the  clay  was  in  his  nostrils. 

That  unknown  cloud  that  had  darkened  his 
thoughts  grew  blacker  and  engulfed  him,  despair 
was  heavy  upon  him,  his  heart  fainted  with  a 
horrible  dread.  In  a  moment,  it  seemed,  a  veil 
would  be  drawn  away  and  certain  awful  things 
would  appear. 

He  strove  to  rise  from  his  chair,  to  cry  out,  but 

he  could  not.     Deep,  deep  the  darkness  closed 

upon  him,  and  the  storm  sounded  far  away.     The 

Roman  fort  surged  up,  terrific,  and  he  saw  the 

302 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

writhing  boughs  in  a  ring,  and  behind  them  a 
glow  and  heat  of  fire.  There  were  hideous  shapes 
that  swarmed  in  the  thicket  of  the  oaks  ;  they 
called  and  beckoned  to  him,  and  rose  into  the 
air,  into  the  flame  that  was  smitten  from  heaven 
about  the  walls.  And  amongst  them  was  the 
form  of  the  beloved,  but  jets  of  flame  issued 
from  her  breasts,  and  beside  her  was  a  horrible 
old  woman,  naked  ;  and  they,  too,  summoned  him 
to  mount  the  hill. 

He  heard  Dr.  Burrows  whispering  of  the 
strange  things  that  had  been  found  in  old  Mrs. 
Gibbon's  cottage,  obscene  figures,  and  unknown 
contrivances.  She  was  a  witch,  he  said,  and  the 
mistress  of  the  witches. 

He  fought  against  the  nightmare,  against  the 
illusion  that  bewildered  him.  All  his  life,  he 
thought,  had  been  an  evil  dream,  and  for  the 
common  world  he  had  fashioned  an  unreal  red 
garment,  that  burned  in  his  eyes.  Truth  and  the 
dream  were  so  mingled  that  now  he  could  not 
divide  one  from  the  other.  He  had  let  Annie 
drink  his  soul  beneath  the  hill,  on  the  night  when 
the  moonfire  shone,  but  he  had  not  surely  seen 
her  exalted  in  the  flame,  the  Queen  of  the  Sab- 
bath. Dimly  he  remembered  Dr.  Burrows  coming 
303 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

to  see  him  in  London,  but  had  he  not  imagined 
all  the  rest  ? 

Again  he  found  himself  in  the  dusky  lane,  and 
Annie  floated  down  to  him  from  the  moon 
above  the  hill.  His  head  sank  upon  her  breast 
again,  but,  alas,  it  was  aflame.  And  he  looked 
down,  and  he  saw  that  his  own  flesh  was  aflame, 
and  he  knew  that  the  fire  could  never  be 
quenched. 

There  was  a  heavy  weight  upon  his  head,  his 
feet  were  nailed  to  the  floor,  and  his  arms  bound 
tight  beside  him.  He  seemed  to  himself  to  rage 
and  struggle  with  the  strength  of  a  madman  ;  but 
his  hand  only  stirred  and  quivered  a  little  as  it 
lay  upon  the  desk. 

Again  he  was  astray  in  the  mist ;  wandering 
through  the  waste  avenues  of  a  city  that  had  been 
ruined  from  ages.  It  had  been  splendid  as  Rome, 
terrible  as  Babylon,  and  for  ever  the  darkness  had 
covered  it,  and  it  lay  desolate  for  ever  in  the  ac- 
cursed plain.  And  far  and  far  the  grey  passages 
stretched  into  the  night,  into  the  icy  fields,  into 
the  place  of  eternal  gloom. 

Ring  within  ring  the  awful  temple  closed  around 
him  ;  unending  circles  of  vast  stones,  circle  within 
circle,  and  every  circle  loss  throughout  all  ages. 
3°4 


THE   HILL  OF  DREAMS 

In  the  centre  was  the  sanctuary  of  the  infernal 
rite,  and  he  was  borne  thither  as  in  the  eddies  of 
a  whirlpool,  to  consummate  his  ruin,  to  celebrate 
the  wedding  of  the  Sabbath.  He  flung  up  his 
arms  and  beat  the  air,  resisting  with  all  his 
strength,  with  muscles  that  could  throw  down 
mountains ;  and  this  time  his  little  finger  stirred 
for  an  instant,  and  his  foot  twitched  upon  the  floor. 
Then  suddenly  a  flaring  street  shone  before 
him.  There  was  darkness  round  about  him,  but 
it  flamed  with  hissing  jets  of  light  and  naphtha 
fires,  and  great  glittering  lamps  swayed  very 
slowly  in  a  violent  blast  of  air.  A  horrible  music, 
and  the  exultation  of  discordant  voices,  swelled 
in  his  ears,  and  he  saw  an  uncertain  tossing  crowd 
of  dusky  figures  that  circled  and  leapt  before  him. 
There  was  a  noise  like  the  chant  of  the  lost,  and 
then  there  appeared  in  the  midst  of  the  orgy, 
beneath  a  red  flame,  the  figure  of  a  woman.  Her 
bronze  hair  and  flushed  cheeks  were  illuminate, 
and  an  argent  light  shone  from  her  eyes,  and  with 
a  smile  that  froze  his  heart  her  lips  opened  to 
speak  to  him.  The  tossing  crowd  faded  away, 
falling  into  a  gulf  of  darkness,  and  then  she  drew 
out  from  her  hair  pins  of  curious  gold,  and  glow- 
ing brooches  in  enamel,  and  poured  out  jewels 
x  305 


THE   HILL   OF  DREAMS 

before  him  from  a  silver  box,  and  then  she 
stripped  from  her  body  her  precious  robes,  and 
stood  in  the  glowing  mist  of  her  hair,  and  held 
out  her  arms  to  him.  But  he  raised  his  eyes  and 
saw  the  mould  and  decay  gaining  on  the  walls  of 
a  dismal  room,  and  a  gloomy  paper  was  dropping 
to  the  rotting  floor.  A  vapour  of  the  grave  entered 
his  nostrils,  and  he  cried  out  with  a  loud  scream  ; 
but  there  was  only  an  indistinct  guttural  murmur 
in  his  throat. 

And  presently  the  woman  fled  away  from  him, 
and  he  pursued  her.  She  fled  away  before  him 
through  midnight  country,  and  he  followed  after 
her,  chasing  her  from  thicket  to  thicket,  from 
valley  to  valley.  And  at  last  he  captured  her  and 
won  her  with  horrible  caresses,  and  they  went  up 
to  celebrate  and  make  the  marriage  of  the  Sab- 
bath. They  were  within  the  matted  thicket,  and 
they  writhed  in  the  flames,  insatiable,  for  ever. 
They  were  tortured,  and  tortured  one  another,  in 
the  sight  of  thousands  who  gathered  thick  about 
them ;  and  their  desire  rose  up  like  a  black 
smoke. 

Without,  the  storm  swelled  to  the  roaring  of  an 
awful  sea,  the  wind  grew  to  a  shrill  long  scream, 
the  elm-tree  was  riven  and  split  with  the  crash  of 
306 


THE    HILL   OF   DREAMS 

a  thunderclap.  To  Lucian  the  tumult  and  the 
shock  came  as  a  gentle  murmur,  as  if  a  brake 
stirred  before  a  sudden  breeze  in  summer.  And 
then  a  vast  silence  overwhelmed  him. 

A  few  minutes  later  there  was  a  shuffling  of 
feet  in  the  passage,  and  the  door  was  softly 
opened.  A  woman  came  in,  holding  a  light,  and 
she  peered  curiously  at  the  figure  sitting  quite  still 
in  the  chair  before  the  desk.  The  woman  was 
half  dressed,  and  she  had  let  her  splendid  bronze 
hair  flow  down,  her  cheeks  were  flushed,  and  as 
she  advanced  into  the  shabby  room,  the  lamp  she 
carried  cast  quaking  shadows  on  the  mouldering 
paper,  patched  with  marks  of  rising  damp,  and 
hanging  in  strips  from  the  wet,  dripping  wall. 
The  blind  had  not  been  drawn,  but  no  light  nor 
glimmer  of  light  filtered  through  the  window,  for 
a  great  straggling  box  tree  that  beat  the  rain 
upon  the  panes  shut  out  even  the  night.  The 
woman  came  softly,  and  as  she  bent  down  over 
Lucian  an  argent  gleam  shone  from  her  brown 
eyes,  and  the  little  curls  upon  her  neck  were  like 
golden  work  upon  marble.  She  put  her  hand  to 
his  heart,  and  looked  up,  and  beckoned  to  some 
one  who  was  waiting  by  the  door. 
307 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

'  Come  in,  Joe,'  she  said.  '  It's  just  as  I  thought 
it  would  be :  "  Death  by  misadventure "  ; '  and 
she  held  up  a  little  empty  bottle  of  dark  blue 
glass  that  was  standing  on  the  desk.  '  He  would 
take  it,  and  I  always  knew  he  would  take  a  drop 
too  much  one  of  these  days.' 

'  What's  all  those  papers  that  he's  got  there  ? ' 

'Didn't  I  tell  you?  It  was  crool  to  see  him. 
He'd  got  it  into  'is  'ead  he  could  write  a  book ; 
he's  been  at  it  for  the  last  six  months.  Look 
'ere.' 

She  spread  the  neat  pile  of  manuscript  broad- 
cast over  the  desk,  and  took  a  sheet  at  haphazard. 
It  was  all  covered  with  illegible  hopeless  scrib- 
blings;  only  here  and  there  it  was  possible  to 
recognise  a  word. 

'  Why,  nobody  could  read  it,  if  they  wanted 
to.' 

'  It's  all  like  that.  He  thought  it  was  beautiful. 
I  used  to  'ear  him  jabbering  to  himself  about  it, 
dreadful  nonsense  it  was  he  used  to  talk.  I  did 
my  best  to  tongue  him  out  of  it,  but  it  wasn't  any 
good." 

'  He  must  have  been  a  bit  dotty.  He's  left  you 
everything  ? ' 

'  Yes.' 

308 


THE   HILL   OF   DREAMS 

'  You'll  have  to  see  about  the  funeral.' 
'  There'll  be  the  inquest  and  all  that  first.' 
'You've  got  evidence   to  show   he   took   the 
stuff.' 

'  Yes,  to  be  sure  I  have.  The  doctor  told  him 
he  would  be  certain  to  do  for  himself,  and  he  was 
found  two  or  three  times  quite  silly  in  the  streets. 
They  had  to  drag  him  away  from  a  house  in 
Halden  Road.  He  was  carrying  on  dreadful, 
shaking  at  the  gaite,  and  calling  out  it  was  'is 
'ome  and  they  wouldn't  let  him  in.  I  heard  Dr. 
Manning  myself  tell  'im  in  this  very  room  that 
he'd  kill  'imself  one  of  these  days.  Joe !  Aren't 
you  ashaimed  of  yourself.  I  declare  you're  quite 
rude,  and  it's  almost  Sunday  too.  Bring  the  light 
over  here,  can't  you  ? ' 

The  man  took  up  the  blazing  paraffin  lamp, 
and  set  it  on  the  desk,  beside  the  scattered  heap 
of  that  terrible  manuscript.  The  flaring  light 
shone  through  the  dead  eyes  into  the  dying  brain, 
and  there  was  a  glow  within,  as  if  great  furnace 
doors  were  opened. 


309 


PLYMOUTH 

WILLIAM   BRENDON  AND  SON,   LTD. 
PRINTERS 


BT  THE  SAME  AUTHOR 


THE   HOUSE  OF  SOULS 

[Including   "The   Great    God    Pan"   and 
"The  Three   Impostors."] 

THE  CHRONICLE  OF 
CLEMENDY 

HIEROGLYPHICS 
DR.  STIGGINS 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY,  LOS  ANGELES 

COLLEGE  LIBRARY 

This  book  is  due  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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